Wooden Horses
by Morithil
Summary: Faramir and Eowyn spend some time alone together after riding out from Ithilien and tentatively begin to open up to each other about their hopes, fears and living under their brothers' shadows.
1. Shadow

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

**WOODEN HORSES**

**I**

_"Leathery breeches, spreading stables,_

_Shining saddles left behind – _

To the down the string of horses 

_Moving out of sight and mind"._

_John Betjeman, "Upper Lambourne". _****

"A commendable choice, little brother; a woman who will settle disputes with a sword as well as her voice. You were meant for each other, and there was I thinking I would be induced to marry first!"

Come back, brother. I can hear your laugh echo in my ears and it makes me smile. I would be in your shadow again, for there is too much light and the sun is in my eyes.

I know you will not return. We shared dreams once before, and the last dream I had showed you sleeping that endless sleep from which there is no awakening.

Yet I have started dreaming again. And I find that like that last dream; this does not vanish in the morning's grey light

She lies there, beside me, her hair spread out over the pillow like ribbons of fair gold. I dreamt I felt her breath in my lungs; smelt her hair as she slept, held the strength in her hands, warmed the ice in her eyes. And when I awoke, it was all true.

Eowyn. Well was she named the White Lady of Rohan, clear and bright as the day when I first saw her in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. I hold my breath sometimes, brother, in case she melts away before my lidded eyes, how you would laugh at that, you who no woman tied down, no proposal would woo, no - 

I assume I knew you too well. 

As I rode up to the Golden Hall some time ago, she was there, standing on the threshold, in dark robes of mourning for her uncle, Theoden, King of Rohan, but over them she wore the mantle of our mother, Finduilas, who only you remember well. She looked fair and queenly, even though she had spent many days in delayed grief and in aiding her brother to restore Meduseld to its former glory. I remember her pale hair caught the white glints of the sun that cold morning and spun them into threads of finery, weaving a golden cap for her lovely head. 

Fatigue, it seems, does not dim her loveliness.

And now, weeks after, we ride out from Ithilien, that fair land of our childhood, brother, to savour some time alone with each other that none other than the King himself has insisted we enjoy before the lengthy festivities end. My bride, I whispered as she drifted into sleep, and my heart swelled within me. I love her.

"That is well, little brother; I would not have you be tied down in a loveless union. I would see you happy, for of late there has been no joy in your face, not until now".

He would say words to that effect, I've no doubt.

I have spent long years in the dark. Why then do I still cling to his ghost?

***


	2. Valour

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.****

**II**

_"In the first moment we had never a thought_

_That they were creatures to be owned and used._

_Among them were some half-a-dozen colts_

_Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,_

_Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden._

_Since then they have pulled our ploughs and borne our loads,_

_But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts. _

_Our life is changed; their coming our beginning."_

_Edwin Muir, The Horses._****

I had not seen this happening to me. Two things, namely, I had carved out as the only fates I would ever have. To wither and age, lost in the half-realised dreams of valour unattained, battles never fought, let alone won. And the other? To descend into battle and rise with glory, worthy of a shieldmaiden of Rohan, not imprisoned by the cage of my role as daughter, orphan, niece, woman. And all in a land where valour is given to those who ride into the fray, not those stay behind and wait.

I had not seen this as my fate.

Once, I had thought that I loved another, and often I consider that I did, at least, as truly as one can love another whom they have known for a fraction of time, almost a stranger. But it was not returned, and now? Now I am glad, and full of joy.

"Wish me joy, lord".

And he said it healed his heart to see me now in bliss. Bliss, yes, that is what I find myself in, a state of lucid dreaming, where I have to pinch my arm through the fabric of my sleeve to remind myself that it is real.

He rides beside me now, quiet and upright, not outwardly proud or vainglorious, as once I had thought a captain of men should be. I had dreams of men with flowing standards, shining helmets, axes swinging in heated air, unnumbered victories, loud claims to honour. No more. I love this man, different from any other I have known, with his gentle smile and modest demeanour.

He is an archer, a scholar, a true leader. His men would follow him, like my countrymen had followed my uncle, to whatever end. I would have been quick to judge him, had I been the person I was. I would have been the first to shun his modesty, challenged him to prove his worth, called him coward for not delighting in the throes of battle and the fire of combat.

And now I understand, and I blush to think of what I might have said had I not realised my love for him and seen the man he is.

There is still so much to discover about him. Faramir is like a well, a deep well that is rooted into the earth, cool in its swirling darkness and profound in its echoes. I have heard the songs now, his charge to reclaim Osgiliath, a tragedy of loss if ever a minstrel sung such a song. Bravery in the face of doom. He led them back into the ruins of the city knowing that they would meet their end there.

He did not, and returned, as was justly said at that moment, after great deeds. I felt like weeping on first hearing the tale, and holding him to me as if an embrace could heal such deep cuts on his memory. But I hesistated, and when the song was over, I had only reached under the table and clasped his hand in mine. It was mine that trembled, but the rims of tears glittered in his eyes then.

I said nothing to him afterwards. I am yet unskilled in such things as expressing feelings and offering words of comfort. My comfort is that of any warrior, no more than a few spare words and a rough hand on a shoulder. If I were to speak, surely I would misjudge the cause of his melancholy.

I still do not understand his sadness though. He looks away from me sometimes, as if there is something pressing on him that seems too trivial to trouble me with, but yet weighs upon him so that in the midst of his happiness I can see, in his clear, wise eyes, that there are still tales to be told about Faramir of Gondor.

He had a brother, also. We are alike in that, but though my irrepressible brother is now King of the Golden Hall, I have not determined the details of his brother's life and yes, his death. Perhaps that is what weighs upon him. I have seen what grief can do to a person, how it can wear them down into shadows of what they once were. I have seen death.

I have heard of his brother, of course. Minas Tirith, Ithilien and ill-fated Osgiliath are all steeped in the legacy of Boromir, firstborn of Denethor, pride of Gondor, a figure who seems larger than life, a myth, too dynamic and potent to be real. Sometimes I imagine this brother of my husband's. He would look like Faramir, of course, but beyond that he is a man of tall stature with a fearless laugh and a warm smile, perhaps the kind that I would have looked up to, but a blurred image and nothing more.

Long had I lived in Eomer's shadow. I love my brother, perhaps more than I will ever admit to him, but every time he rode out from Meduseld, every time I was left on the threshold I felt the darkness creep towards me. And then I was alone.

We had been riding for hours and neither of us showed signs of tiring. At last Faramir slowed and reined in his steed, pointing at the horizon.

"Eowyn, look"

I turned in the direction of his outstretched hand. The sky was ablaze with colour, slate and flame as the sun receded into the distance. I had been so lost in thought I had not even noticed that the sun was setting. I looked at him, and saw the fierce colours strike a shining display in his gaze. I remained looking at him, loving his outline against the darkening sky.

"It's beautiful", I managed, not trusting my grasp on the eloquent to utter more.

He turned back to me, and suddenly I felt light, as if a great light had been opened on me. 

"You are lovelier"

I blushed, and blushed deeper when I saw the smile that broke across his face at my reaction.

"I would not exchange a thousand such skies for a glimpse of you"

Such words I have no answer to. I spent so long struggling to return the compliment that my silence persauded him to tighten his grasp on the reins and make to continue. I panicked.

"Faramir-"

He looked at me again, questioning my outburst silently with his half-smile.

"Let us stay for a while" I beseeched him. I would not have lost that moment for anything on Middle-Earth. When he pulled his steed in next to mine, closer than before, he reached for my hand and held it steadily.

"I had hoped you would say that", he murmured, and lifting my hand, raised it to his lips. A firm but gentle kiss on my skin.

I bowed my head in acknowledgement, unable to hide the wide smile threatening to bubble up in a laugh of pure happiness. It was only when he lifted my head with a careful hand under my chin that I was forced to look up and reveal the joy on my face.

***


	3. Dreams

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.****

Thanks to Sway653, drowningmermaid, Dimfuin, Starlit Horses and Super Danger Frog for their kind reviews – hope I don't disappoint with future chapters!

Morithil.

**III**

_"Time, bring back the rapturous ignorance of long ago, _

_The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts,_

_Of unkept promises and broken hearts"._

_ John Betjeman, Norfolk._

He was so real I could not help crying out, shooting bolt upright, out of sleep and confronting the apparition in the entrance of our tent.

My brother stood there, as bold and vivid as he was in life, his grin so broad it would have cut me less had he drawn his sword and smote me with it. These dreams will haunt me forever, I fear. It is not of our father that I dream, though fire and madness consumed him before my very eyes. It is of my brother, whose death I did not witness, who appears every night, tall and laughing his own husky laugh, emerging from behind his knowing grin. Sometimes we are in Osgiliath again, and we embrace, shoulder-to-shoulder, full of the relief and celebration that accompanied our victory against the enemy.

In my dreams my brother is always smiling.

Except, of course, in one particular dream, where he is still, silent, and lies in a barge drawn gently along by the soothing currents, as if they know the great heart of the warrior they carry, as if they know the great deeds of his life.

My brother, the hero.

Eowyn was worried, of course. She sat up amid the blankets and placed a smooth hand on my shoulder as I gasped for breath, staring at the space where my brother had stood not moments before. Concern was etched all over her lovely face, her hair loose about her pale shoulders.

"My lord?"

The tenderness in her voice began to calm the chaos in my brain.

"Faramir"

I love how she says my name. I had turned then, and looked at her, grateful that she was there to sooth my mind but regretting that my dreams should be the cause of the worry in her eyes. She took my shaking hands in hers and held them tightly, leaning in to rest her head against my neck. Her touch is remarkable, so gentle, and yet so firm. Something secure for me to hold on to. I cannot share these dreams with her. I would not have her think her husband a weakling, who screams like a child whenever he has bad dreams. I would not shame her, fearless warrior that she is.

"Faramir, what is wrong?"

I had swallowed, pushing down the swell in my throat.

"Nothing. Just a dream"

She pulled back then, and I feared I had offended her with my dismissal. Then, to my surprise, she threw off the blankets and wiped a hand across my brow, which, to my dismay, was damp with cold sweat.

"It is more than just a dream, Faramir"

There was silence between us for a while. I wished I could tell her, but told myself that this was something I had to deal with alone. I would not trouble her with such fickle, intangible things as dreams. Even if they do recur, and have done ever since-

I forget when they started, but I am sure they foretold my brother's death, even before that unforgettable dream, the only one in which I saw him - dead. After that, he is alive, boisterous and joking as I remember him, so real I could reach out and clap a brotherly hand around his back, only for him to laugh and ruffle my hair with a callused hand as he did when we were children.

Something clutches at my tunic, over my heart. It is her hand. Slowly, she pulls me down to lie next to her, and I cannot but do her bidding. A white arm brushes my shoulder as she draws me in close, the pale skin of her throat gleaming as I brush a faint kiss on it. My arms no longer listen to me, and wind around her. We lie, facing each other in the quiet of the dawn.

I cannot utter the simple, "Thank you", revolving in my mind, and can only sigh into her hair. There are no words for the peace she brings to me. I pray these dreams cease tormenting me so that I may enjoy more such moments as this without the prelude of pain and unshed grief.

I can but hope.

"Will you not speak of it to me?" she whispers.

My heart aches. She is so selfless.

"I would not worry you with petty issues".

"They are not petty when they concern you", she returns. I have no answer for this.

"Faramir, you can tell me. Whatever troubles you, I will do what little I can to help"

Gods, I have made my wife plead for me to talk to her. What have I done? I should have said nothing.

"I can wait".

She pressed a kiss on my fevered brow and nestled her head on my chest. What have I done to deserve her?

Moments pass. Her breathing grows steady and relaxed.

"Thank you", I whisper haltingly, but she is already asleep.


	4. Nightmares

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.****

Thanks for the reviews! You guys rule.

Morithil.****

**IV**

_"Horses in my dreams,_

_Like waves, like the sea,_

_They pull out of here,_

_They pull, they are free..._

_I have pulled myself clear."_

_ PJ Harvey, Horses In My Dreams_

He looks tired, but he will not admit it. These dreams of his will return with every night, and every morning his eyes betray him, slight shadows under the suddenly weary gaze that greets me with a wan half smile and an admirable attempt at gaiety.

There is much for us to be happy about. We have both defeated evil, both fought to save our lands and people, and the War of the Ring ended, the free peoples of Middle-Earth overcoming all odds to emerge victorious. We have found each other, and in the gardens of the Houses of Healing there was begun the most beloved, to my mind, of the many quiet joys the end of the War brought.

Yet he worries, I can see it. His hands shook this morning, and I wondered what could move such a warrior to such a display of - I do not know. It is not fear, I think, for Faramir is many things but he is never one to show fear, he stands unflinching like a shield to rebuff many arrows. He is not one to show fear, but now that I consider it, he is not one to show many feelings that some, and alas, I at one time, would have considered to be signs of weakness.

The thought struck me as we were dismantling the small tent we share, just large enough for the two of us to lie side by side in it, swathed in blankets, our swords sheathed and lain on either side of our makeshift bed and our riding boots placed together at our feet. I do not know why, but the sight of our boots standing lopsidedly together at the front of our tent makes me smile.

I find humour in the most absurd things, sometimes.

It is unfortunate that I cannot do so with my own dreams, or rather nightmares, as I would fain call them. They have lessened of late, visiting me more and more infrequently, but on certain nights I stand again helpless before the Witch King, and my arm aches the following morning as if the bone had been freshly broken only days before. I wake up, but thankfully not with any visible signs of the terror the night has brought, or Faramir would have more on his mind than his own dreams, and I do not wish to burden him.

I tell myself each morning, with every golden sunrise; you have pulled yourself clear of such shadows now, Eowyn. The darkness is over, you have defeated it. This comforts me, and I realise how much there is now to live for, when all that I had once sought was death. I only want to help Faramir now, if he will let me.

I watch him suffer, quietly and often only for a moment, but that is more than enough.

But back to this morning. Faramir was removing the sharp pegs that pin the corners of the tent to the ground while I saddled the horses, and for reason I know not, for his hands, except after his dreams, are the steadiest in the land, slipped and the pointed tip of the peg he was pulling up ran the length of his palm.

I dropped the blankets I was rolling up to place inside the saddlebags and ran to him. He stood motionless, gazing at the open wound in his palm as if numb. The cut was not very serious, but was quite deep, and had broken through the skin so that blood seeped up through the torn opening as I watched. The cut must have stung sharply, but Faramir's face was emotionless but for one thing.

His jaw tightened as the blood began to slowly trickle down his open palm. I saw the muscles tighten in his face, and realised that any show of pain or vocal response to the injury was being quietly suppressed. Why, I wondered. He need not prove himself to me, I know the warrior in him, I know his strength and if he had voiced his shock at the cut it would have worried me less than the silence he confronted the wound with then.

I quickly tore a long strip from the hem of my dress to bind his hand. It was an old dress, one I would often use for riding in Edoras, with no fanciful embroidery or design, just a simple gown, its cloth thicker than most for wear, and the colour of tea. I bit into the end of the cloth I had torn away to form a shorter piece, and seized upon his hand to wrap it. He started then, as if he had not acknowledged my approach or my touch until that moment, and looked at me as if he did not know why I was there.

I pressed the shorter piece of cloth onto the cut, determined to stop the flow of blood.

Faramir looked at me questioningly.

"You're bleeding".

Again I can only state the obvious. I wound the remaining strip of material round his hand swiftly, binding the makeshift poultice firmly and securing the bandage with a small knot. I do not know why, but his hurt struck me in my heart, and on impulse I snatched his wounded hand up and kissed it through the cloth.

I looked up at him, and saw realisation in his eyes. He squeezed my hand gently, a minute wince forming at the corner of his mouth as he did so. I dropped my gaze to the bandaged hand holding mine. The knot, I realised with embarrassment, was not made with medical skill, and was the same knot I would use to tie a leather strap or the reins of a horse.

And I promised to devote my life to healing. I, Eowyn, who cannot even administer to a cut without tying the bandage as one would tie a steed to a post or bind an armful of hay for the stables.

I dropped his hand and reached for him, cupping his face in my hands. He remained staring at his hand, and I thought for a moment that a tear welled up in one soulful eye.

"The cut is cruel, is it not? I have done my best, the knot is clumsy I know, but I am no healer-"

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"It is fine. My brother would knot such a bandage in the same way"

At last I have it. It is the memory of his brother, surely, that wakes him from slumber. He made off to pick up the discarded peg and placed it in the small sack with the rest.

"Your brother tended to the wounded often?"

He smiled a strange, wistful smile.

"After battle, he would visit the wounded, give them words of courage, laud them on their bravery. But it was not of battle that I spoke. When we were children, I was always stumbling and grazing myself, and Boromir would rush to staunch my cuts and scrapes, always tearing his tunic to wipe the blood away, never leaving me to run to the healers for help. Our father-"

He bit his lip at this, before turning away.

There is much to talk about. His father, I know, was not a kind man; it appears he was much given to releasing his anger on his children, particularly Faramir. I must talk to him about this; he needs to free himself of this shadow, the shadow of his brother and that of his father.

I know much of living in another's shadow, but this I will not tell him. His grievances are more important to me than my own. I must ask him what it is that troubles him so.

We set off across the sunlit plains, rejoicing in the fresh breeze and the thrill of racing the sun as it rose upwards. He smiles now, and out of the corner of my eye I see the grin spread on his face and it makes me glad. Some mischievous streak in me bade me call to him over the soft thunder of hooves.

"A wager, Faramir?"

He looked at me quizzically.

"Name it"

I glanced towards the dark formation of hills in the near distance.

"I will reach those hills before you"

His eyes twinkle at the challenge, and my breath catches in my chest.

"We shall see, my lady. On my count-"

He raised his hand to signal, but I seized my chance, and, digging my heels urgently into the side of my steed, I pelt away over the grass before he can stop me.

I hear a surprised laugh somewhere behind me, and release one of my own as I lean forward, my steed's mane tickling my face as we run faster. I can hear the approaching hooves bearing Faramir come closer, and urge myself on.

The hills loom closer as we race towards them.

I will ask him tonight.


	5. Memories

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Many thanks to Rosie26, Dimfuin, Ertia and quillon for their kind reviews..don't worry Dimfuin, Faramir will open up to Eowyn - its just a matter of time...

Morithil.****

**V**

_"In a dream, I watched you ride the horse_

_Over the dry fields and then_

_Dismount: you two walked together;_

_In the dark, you had no shadows._

_But I felt them coming toward me_

_Since at night they go anywhere,_

_They are their own masters._

_Look at me. You think I don't understand?_

_What is the animal_

_If not passage out of this life?"_

_ Louise Glück, Horse._

I'll admit, my wife has caught me off guard yet again.

She rode away over the landscape, the pounding of her steed's hooves echoing in my ears, her long hair streaked back by the wind, flowing in undulating waves that called out to me, her slim waist leant forward over the saddle, a laugh that beckoned me to follow.

Her ability to endlessly surprise me is one of her many attributes that I love for the unexpected relief it brings from many things.

Such as this melancholy that strikes me, no, strikes is too harsh a word; seeps into me, rather, when the air between us grows still and once again I fear we are but two people who are bound by honour and necessity more than love. But I love her, I cannot say it enough, the words will never grow dim and tasteless on my tongue as those that turned to ashes in my mouth when I spoke them.

"Think well of me, Father"

For a moment I was glad that she led the race, I could see her ride before me, the sunlight on her hair, freedom and beauty in every fibre of her body. She seems to escape all pain, all misery, and I can only wish that I could do the same by simply riding. I sighed to myself before digging my heels tightly into the stirrups and setting off after her, full of the excitement and anticipation of the race.

My brother and I would race often when we were children, having been thrown into the saddle barely assured of the confidence of walking on our own feet. I'm told that our mother would watch us from her window, but I have no memory of this, and all my visions of her seem as pale smoke that lingers over calm waters; lovely but fading even as they emerge. Boromir was always the better rider, sitting upright but comfortable in the saddle, that casual confidence and bold stature visible even then, even to me, though I did not understand it fully at the time, but thought my brother sat astride the horse with all the grace and strength of the kings of old, the warrior kings, those who fought for what they believed in.

When we used to race, I sat nervously upon my steed, the thrill of the start pulsing through my veins, my small hands gripping the reins too tightly in warm fists. He would grin and ask if I was ready. And then we would ride, faster and faster, till all I was aware of was the wind in my face and my brother racing beside me.

And I thought then, as a child, that these days would last forever, that tomorrow would always find us riding side by side, as if life itself was but a long race and we would forever look across our horses' necks to see the other do the same and laugh breathlessly over the stamping hooves.

And for the longest time it was so. Boromir and I lived our lives never far from the other's company, our heady years of adolescence and the approach of manhood spent frequently in games of battle and the light-headed euphoria of the chase. Countless times he would stride purposefully into the libraries and find me, always knowing the exact corner I would sit in, surrounded by the age and mystery of the dusty scrolls, their secrets and tales a delight to my eyes. Countless times he would approach unnoticed, as I would be lost in thought over some account of the Second Age, and he would lean against the dark shelves, arms folded, to ask if I had seen the light of day since the day before -

"For that was the last time I saw you, little brother, sitting as you are now, steeped in the dust of ages past and desperately resisting the urge for a breath of the morning air"

He reached out, and ruffling my hair with a rough hand, laughed fondly, waving away imaginary clouds of golden dust from my head.

"See? Already you are gathering as much dust as these books are!"

And I would happily put down whatever text I had been studying dutifully and, encased in the strong brace of his right arm, be led willingly from the darkened library and out onto the wind swept parapets, down the winding streets to another day in the sun.

Eowyn assigned herself the duty of erecting the tent this evening, and the thud of the hammer against the head of each peg in her white hand sounded out steadily. I strolled up to the clearing we had settled in for the night, and placed the large bundle of firewood I had gathered down and began to arrange the campfire. She stopped once she had finished the task, and straightening, brought her willowy form next to mine and crouched by the pile of dry wood with me.

"Here"

She handed me the two hunks of roughly hewn flint. I smiled, and began the process of lighting our campfire. With each spark the light in her eyes was illuminated in the growing darkness until at last, a small flame took hold and licked greedily over the wood. I fed it with handfuls of dry grass and watched the fire take hold and burn steadily.

We sit now before the comforting light, and before long her head comes to rest in the space between my shoulder and neck that I have given over to her possession long days hence. My arm is again slave to her, and shifts around her shoulders, their slender outline at this moment betraying none of her unquestionable strength and skill. I remember the words the King gave me before we left through the gates of Minas Tirith. I had taken the tent pole from Eowyn, fearing that the large weight would tax her healed arm, and thought that slight annoyance had darted across her face before she smiled. The King took me aside.

"Be careful, Faramir, that you do not induce Eowyn to anger, for you would find that she would swing that tent pole above her shoulders with more ease than you would notch an arrow to your bow. I would not have the Steward of Gondor be led back to his home slung over his horse"

His eyes twinkled with silent laughter as he saw the mild shock on my face before I realised his joke. The Queen laughed quietly and gave him a playful shove, turning to me. What man cannot but listen when such a queen as Arwen Undomiel commands his attention with naught but a look?

"Be happy, Faramir. Enjoy your time together, and spend it in bliss, for", here she locked gazes with the King, "we would have you smile again, and more often".

The King held her gaze tenderly before turning back to me. Their love is all consuming, I remember thinking; it will last all their days.

"I await your return and your words of wisdom and guidance. We have much to talk of when you resume your place"

Wisdom, guidance? Such words attributed to me by the King were unbelievable. I felt giddy by his trust in me, and bowed, but nothing had prepared me for the brotherly embrace he held me in a moment after. Awkwardly I returned the gesture, and when we parted his eyes were understanding.

"The embrace I failed to give your brother in life. His heart would swell with pride to see you, Faramir, this much I know. Think of him and be proud, but look to yourself and Eowyn, for I feel he would have you do so. Go."

I am glad that such a king rules Gondor, for he, although nothing like the leader I had thought would lay claim to this realm, is the king I had hoped for beyond all my desperate wishes.

Eowyn bestowed a soft kiss on my neck and I returned the gift on her forehead. The campfire flickered tongues of gold across her face.

"Faramir"

"Yes?"

"Let me see your hand"

In my mind I ride away in fear and panic. She will not see me as a weakling, ever. But she has already taken it from my lap and is untying the bandage gently. Her fingertips brush my palm. The cut has healed quickly and now is a promising shade of dark red as the blood congeals over it. She runs a careful finger over it, testing the healing process.

In my mind's eye I have already fled this scene, seized the reins of my horse and have escaped from the words I fear. Words my father would reprimand me with, shot through with spite and disappointment. Weakling. Coward. Pathetic. Suddenly I see him standing, vengeful, over me as I scramble back to my feet, an awkward young boy again. We have been practicing swordplay, and he has knocked me down for the third time with a single sweep. I saw my brother leave the hall before I entered, wiping his brow with a damp sleeve, his heavy wooden sword that he used for training rotating forwards and backwards in his other palm as if it had a life of its own.

"Stand up to him, little brother, don't stay on the floor should you fall there"

I looked at him, puzzled. Boromir tucked his sword under his arm and clutched my elbow, leaning in a conspiratorial manner.

"Get up as quickly as you can. This is what I have learned today, brother; do not give Father reason to be angry"

"But you never fall, Boromir, I will, I know it already"

My brother looked at me, as if surprised by my high opinion of him. He dropped his arm from my elbow and rolled up the sleeve. On the skin of his arm a large and painful cluster of bruises was already darkening, a blatant outline of our father's iron grip. I remember now that my brother's eyes were hard and his jaw set.

"I fell today. Do not allow Father to help you to your feet" he muttered, rubbing my arm encouragingly and flashing a brief smile before stalking off down the steps.

"Faramir, may I ask you something?"

I have been somewhere else for the last few moments. Eowyn looks at me, a question on her lovely mouth.

"Of course, my love"

"I have watched you lately, and at times you seem so morose and distant I cannot help but wonder what it is that grieves you so"

I should have tried harder, my wife sees more than she has said. A knot of fear tightens in my throat.

"And I think I have discovered what it is that brings your dreams, that silences your pain, but rather than speculate feebly, I would rather hear it from your own lips. Faramir, will you not tell me what torments you?"

I panic and stand up swiftly, running a shaking hand through my hair. She knows. There is nowhere to run. I stare at the smouldering fire and grit my teeth. I can feel her rise behind me and approach. Her breath is soft on the back of my neck.

"Will you not confide in me?"

I cannot turn to face her. One look at her face and I will dissolve into a sobbing wreck.

"I would not plague you with dark things you need not know of"

Eowyn sighs into my tunic.

"I know more of darkness than I say, lord, in this we are allies"

Her cheek rests on my shoulder blade and my control shatters. I cry out at the fire, words springing to my lips with but a little of the fire many years of suppression have fuelled.

"I would not plague you with things that you have been blessed with ignorance of. I would not tell you of the unhappiness of my childhood, the impossibility of being the younger son, my father's hatred. I would not inform you of the pain of living in another's shadow, but being doubly cursed when that one is taken from you. You are left alone in the sunlight but with the ghost of the only person you ever worshipped-my brother-"

Gods help me, I have said too much, and the harsh, broken voice I now recognise as my own hangs in the crackling air. I begin to walk away, I know not where, the darkness around us grows shadows and they follow me now. Eowyn stands alone before the fire. And I can only sit in silence in the blackness of our tent, made empty by the absence of her being, and wipe away bitter tears in the onset of the night.


	6. Comfort

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Thanks to everyone for the enthusiastic reviews - much appreciated!

Morithil.****

**VI**

_"Hast thou given the horse strength?_

_Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?_

_Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper?_

_The glory of his nostrils is terrible._

_He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength;_

_He goeth on to meet the armed men._

_He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage;_

_Neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet._

_He saith among the trumpets, "Ha, Ha! "_

_And he smelleth the battle afar off,_

_The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."_

_ The Bible, Job 39._

Though the fire crackles before my feet, the evening has grown colder around me.

I have no words to say to his outburst, no touch that can cure his pains, I have stood here in silence for the last hour and though the night has drawn its cloak about me I cannot but think furiously amidst the inky blackness and the flickering tongues of flame that spark in the dry air.

Think on the fire, Eowyn, as it mirrors the burning in your chest.

Faramir worshipped his brother, this I now know. I begin to understand the enormity of his passing, far from home, with no family to send him on into whatever lies beyond death. I can see why Faramir's regrets have grown in number. Perhaps they are unnumbered, therefore how can I hope to dispel them and with them his sadness? I have my own regrets, but surely they are nothing compared to his. Is my love enough to help Faramir? If so, then why does his admittance hurt him so when it is I whom he chose to reveal part of it to? Perhaps I am again unskilled in such matters, unskilled in love.

My love could not keep my mother from fleeing this life. For all my claims to honour, my uncle lies in his tomb, surrounded by those who went before, including my own cousin. When Theodred passed away, damp and cold on his bed, I swore through painful tears that if I had been there at the Fords of Isen, the White Wizard would have known my wrath within minutes. Now I see that I could not have assailed Isengard, even more so on my own. The black tower would have overshadowed me, and in the web of his voice I would have been struck dead as a stone. At Theodred's funeral, I could feel my voice breaking as I sung the last refrain, my throat trembling as the name of Meduseld left my lips. I saw my uncle's face, quiet and restrained throughout the ceremony as he followed the body of his only son to the silence of his tomb.

Now they lie side by side in Meduseld.

Then I wished fervently for more power than my woman's form would allow me to have. My brother was riding, always riding, at that time roaming the lands in exile, unlawful banishment and every day I felt his absence but more so I felt my own solitude begin to forge a cage for myself alone. I wished I was my uncle's nephew and not his niece, so that I might command the riders and wreak the terrible vengeance on the Uruk-Hai as Eomer did on a night that clouded the stars and two Halflings became intertwined with the fates of Rohan and Gondor.

I was angry as a child. Not outwardly, not thrashing about, not voicing my rage freely to the winds, but nevertheless I was consumed by anger. I would clench my fists so that the small knuckles turned white and Eomer would have to reach across and swipe the fists open with a disapproving cuff. There was much to be angry of. Our father was dead, slain by orcs, and even though we were passed into the loving care and over the threshold of our uncle, our mother passed away from her grief. And I was not so much saddened by her death as I was grieved by what I perceived as her callousness in dying. Why she would choose to abandon us, her own children, when there is no certainty beyond death that all will be reunited with those they love. Eomer stood taller in those dark days, shielding me from the glare of his own quiet grief, his arm around my shoulder as we followed the rituals, two young children made older by the dark robes of mourning. We rode frequently, but not far. Only Eomer spanned the plains of Rohan in his young adulthood, while I was left disgruntled and out of place among the women of our people. How many times had I gazed out from the Golden Hall, seen the white horse of Rohan flicker in the breeze and watch the panels of light cross the wide open land, imagining myself riding away, my shield and my sword in hand, fearless as a maiden of the house of Eorl should be, the cry of, "Forth Eorlingas!", thrown impassioned to the skies, my voice like a spear thrown in battle.

What is to be done, I asked myself. I brought up Faramir's discarded cloak from the ground and wrapped it around my shoulders as the evening breezes grew cooler. I brought the fabric close to my face, kissed the woven edges softly and let a quiet sigh leave my body. It is strange that we can be so close in terms of distance, but so far away, separated by many days' travel in our minds. I glanced towards the dark outline of our tent, and heard no sound come from within. It is silent and almost ominous now, as my uncle's house became when Eomer was banished.

I was so alone.

The warm halls and roaring fires of Meduseld turned grey and ashen when my uncle's mind was overthrown, imprisoned by terrible wizardry. I walked the long hallways quickly and as little as possible, not trusting their panelled sides or their lit beacons, ever fearful of the shadows following me, even when the day forbade all such things from entering the house. But followed I was, and what might have become of me, were it not for the power of Gandalf Greyhame and the restoration of my uncle, I shuddered to think, for the stooped and heavily cloaked frame of Gríma Wormtongue haunted me for days after he rode out from Edoras and into the employment of Isengard. The sibilant croak of his voice chilled my skin even after he was thrown from the threshold; his writhing form on the flaggoned steps nearly forced me to run back into the safety of the Golden Hall, pitiful in his treachery as he was.

And there was no steed I could allow to bear me away from Edoras, had I wanted to go. I was surrounded by horses, wooden outlines and forms carved in the halls, static in their fury, immovable and silent. Everywhere there was movement and yet stillness at the same time. I retreated into the past to escape the bare horror of the present. I remembered how Eomer and I would look at each other in the same way that we did when he brought our cousin back, wounded and near death. My brother would give me that look from under his eyes and the straggly straw-coloured locks that still hang over his brow today even then, when we were children. Brother and sister united in silence and grief, as we had been the moment we became orphans, voicing our self-pity to no one save each other and ourselves.

I looked again to our tent, and saw only darkness and grief. There is still time, I told myself, still time to mend old wounds and forge new hopes. It was this thought that pulled me irresistibly forward, my feet softly treading the short grass until I reached the opening. I stood for some minutes in front of the tent, torn between leaving Faramir to his own devices and crouching to enter our makeshift home. The air stirred with the night songs of insects and the occasional call of an owl, silently winging its way to the earth.

I crouched down and, holding the heavy flap aside, slipped inside, his cloak drawn tight around me.

When my eyes adjusted to the dense blackness inside, I could see Faramir sitting, his arms resting on his knees, his face unreadable as he stared into nothingness, his eyes heavy with thought or numbness, I knew not which. I have to try. Comfort is all I can offer.

"My lord?"

There was no response. He stared ahead, unseeing in the darkness.

"Faramir"

I let the flap of material drop, and as the opening of the tent slapped shut he blinked and turned his gaze to me. I felt him take in the presence of his cloak wrapped close about me, and even then, as I saw the dull pain in his eyes, my skin tingled as it did when we first met in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. If I close my eyes I can still smell the fresh scents of healing plants and folded linen, and if I open them again I can lose myself in his look.

I dropped my hand from where it had clutched the cloak to me, and taking the garment in both hands, made my way closer to him and opening the fabric, swept the cloak around his shoulders gently.

I felt him shiver at my touch. I moved closer, made bolder by his silence, which had previously made me keep my distance. I smoothed the soft cloth over his shoulders, slowly running my hands along his back as I gathered the folds about him.

"You must be cold. The night grows chill"

No comfort in those words, Eowyn, but it is a start, to be certain.

I reached round his neck with my right hand to pull the cloak higher about his neck, and saw his eyelids flicker. His head lowered as I smoothed the fabric around his collarbone, and as my hand trailed briefly across his chest as I withdrew it, a short sigh escaped his lips.

My confidence grows with every sign of him giving in to me.

I lift my left hand up to cup the back of his neck, slipping it under the wavy locks that fall about his shoulders. I lean closer to him and he struggles to remain staring directly in front at the canvas wall of the tent.

"Faramir", I murmur at his cheek.

His eyes close as I plant a lingering kiss at his jaw line. I cannot stop myself and place another at the corner of his mouth, steadying myself with a hand over the arm that rests on his knee. Through the sleeve of his tunic I can feel him tense. I shift so that I kneel behind him, my hands moving to his shoulders as I kiss the side of his neck. I want to hold him to me as I did the cloak, but some inner uncertainty holds me back, so I brush my hand gently under his chin to draw him to me, leading him to look over his left shoulder. Where there was so much silence is now a ripple of heartbeats so deafening I fear my brain will burst. His eyes are still closed, and as my palm frames one noble cheek he speaks.

"Eowyn", hoarsely through dry lips.

Relief floods my mind. I rise slightly to move, and resume a kneeling position before him. I lean forward into his space and slowly, for I do not know if I assume too much, draw my arms about his neck and let the small distance between us be breached by our quickening breaths. A tight cord knots in my throat; am I right in doing so? I am answered by his hands sliding from his knees and roaming upwards so that I am clasped in his tight embrace, a single thought running repeatedly through my mind -

I love this man.

When he reaches for my mouth I am unable to move, and when his lips cover mine and engulf me in a slow but desperate kiss I can feel my knees tremble. I rebuke myself; a shieldmaiden of Rohan to be cowed by a kiss? And I respond as fervently as his torturous, searching mouth will allow me to, a telling sigh leaving my lips as a groan escapes his. Our lips sear on our mouths. His hands grip my waist and back more firmly after, and I whisper to him as he lowers his head to my burning neck -

"Let me help you, Faramir"

His heavy breathing warms my already heated throat. A warm tear streaks down my neck as he chokes, with emotion? I know not. Still holding me tightly, his broken words cut the air as he lifts his head to face me with swollen eyes damp with tears, our breaths catching.

"Gods-", and his hands shake as they begin to jerk away from me.

"-I would not use you so to relieve me of my selfish pain. I would fain die than use you like this"

He rubs his face harshly with one sleeve to dry the moist tracks under his eyes. My heart weighs like lead within my chest as he stumbles to his feet and out of the tent, his plea ringing with self-disgust and shame.

"Forgive me-"

I hear him pace heavily outside our tent, a stolid pattern interrupted only by suppressed cries of anguish, so brief in their existence before his hand and strong will cuts them off, but no less painful on my very soul.

I lie down amid the rumpled blankets and draw his abandoned cloak about me once more. My body aches for him yet, even as his kisses cool on my skin.


	7. Combat

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this so far._

_Dimfuin and quillon - You_ guys are crying?? Your reviews are making _me_ go all misty-eyed! I'm so amazed at your response to this story – Thank you so much.

I've got to warn you that after this update it might be a week or so till the next one – Faramir was driving me insane the other night (spurred on by kind reviews) so this is why this chapter has followed the last one so quickly.

Morithil.

**VII**

"And so, admitted through black swollen gates 

_That must arrest all distance otherwise, -_

_Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments,_

_Light wrestling there incessantly with light,_

_Star kissing star through wave on wave unto_

_Your body rocking!_

_ and where death, if shed,_

_Presumes no carnage, but this single change, -_

_Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn_

_The silken skilled transmemberment of song;_

_Permit me voyage, love, into your hands..."_

_ Hart Crane, Voyages (III)_

The wind whipped briskly on the higher rolls of the slopes, and looking down from the earthy ascent of the scrub-covered hill this force blows my hair into my eyes.

I am at Minas Tirith again, and in the grey light of this cold morning the tower of Ecthelion glimmers subtly with muted shades. Even through the blizzard of my hair brushing my eyes I could see her, the White City, resplendent even in these days when war is a way of life. My heart has grown heavy within me, as I know today is but a brief respite from the continuing battle we fight on the borders of our land.

My brother rides up the hill, his weighty cloak rippling from the high winds, and even now, as we are both men now roughened by years of war and the strain of combat, my admiration for him is undimmed. He runs a gloved hand through his windswept locks as he joins me.

We stand together in silence for a while, looking intently at our home and straightening our backs against the now aggressive winds.

"She is as beautiful as ever, defiant and shining even in these unfortunate days"

"Well said, brother"

Boromir looked a little pleased at my approval of his newfound eloquence. A grin flashed across his face as I smiled at him. From time to time my brother would surprise me with these concise and thoughtful truths, as I, and many others, were more familiar with his rough cursing and straightforward manner of speech than his little revealed expressivity. Today his face is a little preoccupied, his expression a little dark, and the lighter strands of his hair cannot hide the ill-concealed discomfort he feels. I nod at the expanse before us.

"One day all this will be yours to govern"

My brother's jaw became taught. Through the shrill winds I could have sworn I heard him grit his teeth. He turned to me.

"Today all this is ours, to defend with our lives -" he returned, an affectionate smile beginning to hover around his mouth.

" - Though you'll forgive me entering the fray before you, little brother, as I would have to ensure your safety first before allowing you to follow me"

I love the joking banter we often lapse into.

"_Allow_ me?" I counter, mock-offended, "And what, pray tell, prevents me from reaching this fray before you?"

"My arm, little brother, around your neck, like this-" and Boromir, catching me off-guard, has leant over in his saddle and encased me in a fearsome headlock, nearly pulling out of my own saddle in doing so. As when we were children, all I can do is tug uselessly at his forearms or cuff wildly at his head. Either way, we both collapse in laughter.

When our moment of merriment ceased we both turned back to Minas Tirith in comfortable silence.

"When you are Steward - "

"I do not wish to be Steward, Faramir", my brother sighed, a sound that contained more weariness than I was sure I liked. That, coupled with his use of my name, made any potential affectionate jibe still in my throat.

"I wish to remain as I am, now. I wish for us to remain Captains, though," and here his proud face became troubled, "that is not to say I wish for these days of war to continue, only for us to stay as we are now"

I swallowed the stinging harbinger of tears that grew in my mouth.

"One day-"

"One day we shall see the glory of Gondor restored, little brother"

The wind howled over the sharp edges of the mountains, a mournful song in the cold air. I shivered, pulling my warm cloak about me to combat the icy temperatures. I looked at my brother, sitting tall in the saddle, his gloved hands holding the reins loosely but with effortless control, his profile held upright in defiance of the winds, a trace of sadness in his eyes. His presence puts words in my mouth.

"Would we could stay like this forever"

"Well said, little brother"

I woke up heated, but strangely cold. The blankets around me fell into disarray as I sat up groggily, wiping my eyes free from the drowsiness of sleep. No sooner had I done so but I fell back onto the blankets once more, the harsh reality of day bringing back the lucidity of last night.

I could not stop myself last night. Eowyn before me, behind me, surrounding me with her bright hair and her persuasive touch, her lingering kisses still tangible, if only to me, on my face and neck, her soft mouth beneath mine driving me on, pulling me in deeper - her touch is a keen double-edged blade. It heals while it burns. I could barely refrain from begging for more.

What little strength of will I had left to resist her led me out into the night and into solitude again, unfulfilled and cursing myself for using her so. She is my wife, and last night I nearly allowed myself to forget my grief in her white arms, lose myself in selfish love at the cost of her own needs. Never again. I must fight this, though I do not know how to begin. When I recovered from the returning slap of shame that followed the remembrance of last night, I looked to find the space beside me empty and cold, as if it was she who spent the rest of the night pacing outside, only returning to our tent in the first hours of the morning when the other lay sleeping.

"Eowyn?" I asked the morning silence tentatively. No reply soothed my mind. I sat up again.

"Eowyn", a little strained this time, panic showing in my voice.

I stood up hurriedly and staggered out into the day. The ashes of the campfire lay grey and dull, scattered here and there a little by the slight breeze. I spun, terrified on my heel, encompassing our campsite, and did not find her there.

Terror struck me, and I strode this way and that, round our tent again, into the copse that partly sheltered us.

Nothing.

Hardly a sound but the sigh of the wind in the trees.

I stumbled out from the bushes and, still in the grip of that heady mixture of drowsiness and fear, ventured down the slope, staggering slightly as my booted feet adjusted to the uneven descent.

Now I progress down the hill, every breath growing ragged in my lungs with every step that does not lead me to her. Oh Gods, what have I induced her to do? Her horse is still tied beside mine, but she is not to be found. Surely she did not venture out into the wilderness alone after I returned to our tent? Surely she would take her steed to -

To flee from my coldness and my selfishness. And what man would blame her? Fair, brave and wonderful woman she is, to remain with her aloof dotard of a husband? Who would blame her? I sink to my knees in the grass, damp with the remnants of the morning's dew.

It is only the unmistakeable swing of a blade through the air that stirs me now from these grievous thoughts. That sharp, but heavy whistling sound as a sword slices downwards.

Eowyn. What has happened, is she -

I stand up again, and awkwardly make towards the sound, which travels up from the bottom of the slope, away and to the left of me. I fear attack, I fear my wife is left alone to defend herself, I fear all manner of dark things. What greets me there stops me dead in my tracks.

She swings at nothingness, her sword slashing out at the thin air, her hands expertly turning and rotating the blade as she strikes, first to the right, then she spins, turning on her slim booted feet, her hair flying wild around her, and I behold my wife for what she is in battle, ferocious, graceful and undoubtedly my equal if not my better in swordsmanship. Her feet step out confidently as she changes her arm positions to deflect and parry with this invisible foe, and it is only when she cries out as she swings downwards with a blow of terrifying strength for one so beautiful that I see the fresh tears stain her white face.

Her cries of frustration increase, emerging with every new blow, until she finally sinks her blade into the unlucky carcass of the dead tree near her, sheathing the sword up to the hilt in the decayed wood. The dry sound of the stab has a sickening resonance.

What have you done, Faramir.

My wife turns to me, and looks me quickly up and down as if she has been aware of my presence all along. The tears shine along her proud face. My tongue cleaves to my mouth. I can see the frustration in her eyes but that is not what silences me. It is the sharpness of the love in them that bores into me, the knowledge that her love for me is driving her to this. She finally speaks, and afterwards her words ring like alarm bells in my ears for hours to come.

" Your silence tells me nothing of this enemy. I must fight the shadows for both of us the only way I know how"

The woman I adore withdraws her sword violently from the bark and sheaths it, avoiding my eyes as she stalks back up the hill. She is hurt by my surrender to this melancholy. She seeks to fight it herself if I cannot.

Oh, Eowyn. If only I knew how to fight it, I would. If only these dreams would cease to torment me. If only the past would loosen its grip.

Would that we could spend our nights in love, and not desperation.


	8. Trickery

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Wow. What a response to the last chapter! You guys are fabulous; thank you for sticking with this, it means a lot.

Morithil.

**VIII**

_"The surest thing there is we are riders,_

_And though none too successful at it, guiders,_

_Through everything presented, land and tide_

_And now the very air, of what we ride._

_What is this talked-of mystery of birth_

_But being mounted bareback on the earth?_

_We can just see the infant up astride,_

_His small fist buried in the bushy hide._

_There is our wildest mount--a headless horse._

_But though it runs unbridled off its course,_

_And all our blandishments would seem defied,_

_We have ideas yet that we haven't tried."_

_ Robert Frost, Riders_

The sun was warmer this morning when we set off again, crossing the plains in the yellow panes of light. I was a little saddened, and frustrated, but something in the comfortable, if a little tense silence that we shared for much of the morning's ride gave me hope.

When I looked out of the corner of my eye at him, something which I did continuously for the first few hours of riding, I could not help but smile, because to see this man riding, his hair caressed by the breeze, his eyes glittering in the light, the kindness in his face, is truly something beautiful.

Faramir is my husband. My husband. I say the words to myself often, and have done ever since we were brought together, but still they ring in my ears with the clear joy that they first did after we were married. Whatever conflict came between us this morning, it will be resolved today, of that I made sure, swearing a silent pact with myself that did I not try my utmost to heal this wound once and for all, then -

Then I was not the person I thought I was, and I think myself a determined woman. Some would say stubborn, not least among them my own brother, who grew amusingly agitated when I tried to straighten his robes before his formal coronation.

"Helm's Deep, Eowyn; you are my sister, not my wife. If you are to fuss over any man's clothing, let it be your betrothed's, not mine!"

My brother is easily annoyed by what he calls, "the fussing of women, like so many hens in a coop", but I think he may meet his match in the daughter of Prince Imrahil. Her name is Lothiriel, and for all his silence on the matter, I think the calm grey-eyed lady he but heard of a few times during the celebrations in Gondor would face off easily against his quick temper.

He falls quiet and snaps at me when I mention her name. A sign of things to come, perhaps? Perhaps he knows, somewhere in his heart of hearts, that one day the king of Rohan will be in want, as well as need, of a wife.

But as I said, I am determined now to aid Faramir, whether he appears to want my assistance or not. This is the Eowyn I feared I had lost before the battle of the Pelennor Fields, the adamant, decisive lady who would fight for everything she holds dear to her. My bout of sword fighting this morning was not out of desperation, on the contrary, it was an exorcism of all the pent-up emotion inside me. The Rohirrim may not be known for expressing themselves with words, but a half hour with a blade and all such stresses are relieved from our systems.

My mind is calmed now. I know what, and how I am to do.

When we stopped to rest and eat, I took the opportunity of Faramir's occupation with his horse's reins to slip up behind him and embrace him as I have wanted to since his dreams became more vivid and disturbing. He was a little startled by the embrace, but when my arms wound under his and around his waist he stopped attending to his horse and held my hands, clasped round his firm stomach with his. We stood thus for some time, with nothing but the occasional flick of a horse's tail interrupting the formation of our joined silhouette in the grass. I bent my head to his shoulder and bestowed a kiss through his tunic as an afterthought, to which he raised an arm, and reaching behind himself, cradled my head gently against his neck, stroking the tendrils of hair that escaped my hasty knot. His other index finger drew soothing circles on the hands linked around him.

Sometimes words are not necessary. I feel we say more when we stand thus, in loving quiet, but words are what I will use later, for all my fears of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

When we had eaten and rested, and were mounted again, refreshed by the break in riding, we set off again, and this time the silence between us held none of the previous tension it had earlier in the day. Such sights we saw on our journey, the rolling hills, and vast plains, the ice capped mountains in the distance, all so breathtaking I wondered where I had been living before I met Faramir; Middle-Earth seemed to have taken on a dazzling beauty after he walked into my life, or rather, after I walked into his.

I cannot help but laugh at myself when I think back on our first meeting. How I must have appeared to him! Like a sulking child eager to leave a sickbed, aching to see the outdoors, completely adamant on getting my way, verging on a most unladylike tantrum. Perturbed when he told me that he was as much of prisoner to the Warden as I was. How the Houses of Healing had closed around me before that day, until I came into contact with another patient, someone other than the healers, though grateful I was for their care. A living man, not the memory of my uncle and the always disappearing figure of the Ranger leaving my room, unceasingly departing on the thresholds of my mind.

The Ranger. The King. A great and wise man, but to whom my heart is no longer a thwarted servant.

The Queen's kindness to me has been a wonderful surprise that is relived every time we meet. There is no pity in her smile, and she is the most sincere woman I shall ever be honoured to call my friend. Whenever I stop to visit Faramir while he works, sometimes bring him some lunch, a book that I feel will interest him, she is swift to leave her chambers and greet me after hearing the heralds announce my presence, her soft, cool hand on my arm, her sisterly kiss brushing my face. Sometimes we walk the cool stone hallways together, her arm linked through mine, gently leading us on. She always enquires after me, and on the morning Faramir and I left Minas Tirith, she took me aside to suggest, that when we returned, if I was not too fatigued, we might take our horses over the grassy land lying before the White City, as it had been many days since she had last set foot in a stirrup. Of course she is a great rider, another facet of her serene personality that intrigued me. She is too modest to speak of the flight she made to bring the Ringbearer to her father's house, of that marathon I heard from the King, in praising and awed words from his own lips. How could I refuse such an invitation, from the Queen herself, especially when her eyes looked into mine, and I saw the wisdom of many ages of Men in them?

I let Faramir assemble our campfire this evening. I have wandered into the trees, with the premise of looking for extra firewood, when that is the last thing I have come here to look for. Such forests are still so strange and thrilling to me, I feel like a child again, playing hide and seek and trying desperately not to be seen sneaking from one hiding place to another. In Edoras I had the mountains for a backdrop, with the plains and hills before me. Though Fangorn lay on the borders, no-one dared to enter its leafy depths, and from what Merry, the Halfling of whom I have become very fond of, not least for his bravery, has told me of it, I can see why. Mythic shepherds of the forest, water with extraordinary powers, trees that cast out roots to ensnare and devour; these tales at once surprise and delight me. But it is not Fangorn I have come into searching for a particular – there, I see it.

I cut the young wayward stem from the trunk of the tree, careful not to maim the new bud underneath, and sat comfortably down among the leaves, paring the offshoots away with my small knife until I had a perfectly smooth baton of greenwood that swayed when I tested its flexibility, lithe as a fencing blade.

I feel another wager forming in my mind. I seek out another such stem, and cut a second baton.

I stroll back to the campfire as Faramir straightens in front of the fire and sits down on a dried log, absorbed in the flames. I hold back a shudder, as well I know the terror he almost unknowingly passed through, his father's pyre that nearly became his own. I am overcome with the need to write to Pippin and thank him again for saving the life of the man who became my husband. For a fleeting second I entertain the thought of riding to the Shire itself, that merry land the hobbits spoke in lively and fond voices of. Perhaps another day. Faramir glances up at me and manages a brief smile that swells my heart. His eyes lower to the slim wands in my hand, evidently not the armful of firewood he was anticipating. I smiled back at the inquisitive look in his eyes. I tossed one of the stems into his lap. His hand flew up and caught it before it landed, the reflexes of a seasoned warrior.

"Spar with me, Faramir"

His smile grows a little tired and he looks away. I refuse to give up. I assume a prepared stance, the greenwood held out before me, pointing straight at him. Faramir releases a soft laugh before turning back to me.

"My lady, you far exceed me in your skill. I dare not risk my life challenging such a fair and assured opponent"

I listen to his courteous words in blushing silence before mustering my resolve. I lightly prod his shoulder with the tip of the wand, daring him to retaliate. He smiles wanly, and remains immobile.

"Remain seated if you wish, lord, but allow me another wager; if I win this match, you are bound to answer any question I desire you to"

His eyes flicker with the seemingly innocent challenge, or perhaps it is only the fire reflected in them. Still he refuses to rise.

"Well, my lord, I am loath to attack you thus, but you leave me no choice"

I lunged in with the wand, and before the tip reached his neck, his hand, grasping my weapon's twin, flicks it away with a barely visibly movement. I try again, and again, and each time he swipes away the greenwood with little more than the twist of an expert wrist. Finally his concentration lapses, and it is in taking advantage of this that I managed to make contact with his tunic three times in quick succession. Victory, but at no easy stride.

He drops the wand in admission of defeat.

"I am yours to command, lady. What would you have me confess?"

His voice carries a trace of weariness in it in the aftermath of his resigned defeat. He knows not what I am about to ask.

I cast my own baton away, sending it spinning into the undergrowth, and walking around the fire, sit beside him, but not on the log, on the springy grass before it, and looking at the glowing fire, place a hand on his left knee. I can tell his gaze flickers to the gesture before alighting on me. 'Tis not the warmth of the fire that heats my skin.

"I wonder if you know, Faramir", I begin, still looking at the fire while he looks on me, "that I know when you have dreams because I have them myself. I wonder if you know that while you think of the reasons why you should refrain from telling me of them, I think of all the reasons why you should not. I wonder if you could tell me of them now, speak of them to one who has wandered in despair and stood before darkness terrible, and who does not fear to walk in the dark dreams of others as well as her own"

His knee grows tense under my calm hand. I look up at him from where I sit. Faramir's face is a mask of fear and doubt, his eyes widen slightly with concealed terror.

"Lady, you have given me more than one question to answer"

His voice trembles.

"Treat me not always as your wife, Faramir. Speak to me as the confidant you have never had, please"

He looks into my face, unseeing, searching for something unknown. I place another hand on top of the other. Beseech him.

"You need not fear my judgement or my scorn. I cast those things away from me the moment you took my hand. Do not hold back from me, Faramir"

He shifts his search to the flaming branches crackling in the night. He takes a long, shallow breath, barely audible above the fire; clasps his hands together, leans forward over his knees and begins haltingly.

"If you remember, lady, I gave you the cloak of my mother's, Finduilas of Amroth, who I scarcely remember, and who died before I could forge lasting memories of her, died too soon after my life began"

I nod in assent.

"My own mother died before more such memories could be made"

Faramir clears his throat, opens and clasps his hands again. His voice grows strained, but I can tell he is encouraged by our connection in grief.

"I know not if this is why I first pained my father so, why my every breath offended him, but I know only this for certain, that for all these hurts, my brother placed mine above our father's, until the end of his days I am certain Boromir held me in even higher regard than I held him, unworthy as I was of his love -"

I kiss his shoulder lightly, quietly allow him to continue. Yea, I have found the beginning of his pain, and before long, I shall find a way to end it.


	9. Unspoken

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Again, thank you for all the reviews.

Helena – Well, that's a definite first; no one's asked to put my work in a fanfic archive before, it means a lot. I'll definitely submit it when it's finished!

Morithil.

**VIIII**

_ "Tell her that sheds_

_ Such treasure in the air,_

_ Recking naught but that her graces give_

_ Life to the moment,_

_ I would bid them live,_

_ As roses might, in magic amber laid,_

_ Red overwrought with orange and all made_

_ One substance and one colour_

_ Braving time"_

_ Ezra Pound, Life and Contacts; Envoi._

Something Boromir once said to me came back, came back at the moment when Eowyn won the little sparring match earlier, allowing me to talk more freely than I have done for some time. Always free with his praise, my archery was more than once subject to his compliments, as it was this I practiced more diligently than the swordsmanship our father was so unrelenting in impressing upon me. After hitting the centre of the farthest possible target three consecutive times, in much the same fashion and the same determination with which my wife made contact with her makeshift sword, Boromir stalked over to where I was lowering my bow, an grin of elation tightening his face.

"That's the fifth time today that you've done that. Honestly, brother, I would have to scale the outside walls of the tower of Ecthelion and place a target at the top of its spire to provide you with a target that would prove a challenge!"

I smiled, returning the vigorous shake he dealt my hand.

"I think that such a target would prove more than a challenge, brother. Another time, perhaps?"

"Oh, well perhaps when you are less consumed in reading, I will hold you to that. It would make for a fine display of Gondorian skill, and besides, I doubt I would be able to surpass such a feat"

"You are too kind, brother. My aim is fine, but I cannot see that far"

He gave me a strange half-smile, leaning against a cool wall as he looked at me.

"You see further than most, little brother. If only you could see that you are more than worthy of all the praise any man could give you."

"You mean father, I assume"

Boromir grimaced, folding his arms over his chest.

"I mean all men, least of all father"

I fumbled uncertainly with my vanguards, unsure of what to say. He straightened suddenly, struck by some inspired thought, and took my arm.

"Come on, I'm sure that a few ales will cure your infallible modesty, and besides, 'tis certain that the men would be impressed by what you've demonstrated today,_ Captain Faramir_"__

I laughed at his firmly tongue-in-cheek formality, and progressed down to the street where my brother wasted no time in informing all passers by of my skill as an archer, my keen sight, my true aim. "You see further than most", he had said, and he was right, for now I look further into the past than I have ever done before.

Eowyn smiled, briefly dazzling me. Somehow this becomes easier, having started, I cannot stop now, and I begin to feel the sensation of not wishing to, either. This hurts, but simultaneously purges the more I speak of less happy days, memories, words.

"I lived in his shadow, perhaps all my life, I am uncertain, but I know that despite this there was no other place I was content to remain. I did not wish to surpass Boromir, never, not in anything, but -", I halted, rearranging my words, "I only wished for our father to hold me with some regard, I did not strongly desire his praise, not at first, but I did not want to forever be subject to his scorn either. Boromir tried, countless times, talking to him, trying to convince him of what he saw as unfair judgement, though I know that my brother always did this as quietly as possible, as if he knew that I would not take well to him continuing to stand up for me even in adulthood. I could never do anything right in our father's eyes, I would ever - "

A deep breath was needed to repeat those words that would torment me in the wake of Boromir's absence. I could feel our father's cold gaze on me then, even then as I sat before the fire.

"Ever cast poor reflection upon him. Always"

I turned to face my beautiful wife, and saw, with a leap of my heart, a flower of outrage open across her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, her eyes burning with anger and astonishment.

"How?" she demanded adamantly, but quietly, the level of volume in her voice struggling to remain controlled, "How could your father think so of you, Faramir? ''Twas not fair, I second your brother in that, as if you, the best and kindest of men could even think to do so. Ever you sought to have his approval and love, could he not see that you were your brother's equal, that you were equally skilled in your own fields of battle, that as a father the only emotions he should ever feel were love and pride in both his sons?"

She had risen to her feet in an endearing rush of exasperation, her voice raised at the end of her exclamation. The echo of her last words rang in the stillness. How I love her passion, the fiery liveliness with which she grasps everything in life. I smiled wistfully as she joined me on my wooden seat.

"Oh, my love", I sighed, stroking her cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she sat beside me, "if only you knew how many times I wondered the very same, how many times Boromir would voice similar frustration. If only I had met you earlier in my life, you would have given me courage to be able to voice those questions to my father, to break the silence between us, I am certain"

"Nay", she refuted, "you had the courage to endure such silence. I could not build upon such a supply"

She spoke as if she knew, knew the stern looks and leaden silences in grey halls, receding steps on stone floors, shame and hurt stinging like a slap in the face, and all from a few choice words from my father's lips. I struggled to retain my composure.

"You are a wealth of understanding, lady"

She was calmed by this, but on impulse darted forward, landing a brief but fervent kiss on my cheek that warmed my soul. I held her hands, wondered at the long, tapering fingers, white and elegant, strong in mine. Though terrible the scene, I could not help but wonder at her battle with the Witch-King of the Nazgul, could not help envisaging my lovely wife standing pale and defiant in the face of an older, fouler evil. Her hands gripping her sword tightly, her shield glowing in the heat of battle. Oh brother, did you face the evil that took your life in this way? I think so, for if you had been given the choice, an honourable death in battle would have been the most fitting in your eyes, but such death means that you are forever owning of the years you had when you left, never aging in my memory. Immortal.

"You loved your brother very much, Faramir", Eowyn offered tentatively. I choked on my affirmation.

"Yes. He was a hero, a great man, the best in all of Gondor. Even when we were boys, I looked up to him", I smiled at the rare happier, sun-drenched memories, "his confidence, his strength, his mirth"

The strength in tough and calloused hands. The ease with which he wielded his broadsword, a formidable weapon not only in terms of weight and manoeuvrability. The grin that could pierce maidens' hearts with one blow, his contagious laughter. His grim silence, his quiet hope. I voiced this much to Eowyn, who nodded at my words as if savouring the taste of a fine wine.

"Strong is the man that commands the reins of his mount without force, and who, when facing the long journeys alone, takes comfort from the thunder of hooves"

I looked at Eowyn, her face suddenly closed as she stared into and beyond the fire, her voice intoning the words with slow dignity. I savoured the remark before she smiled in explanation.

"An Old Rohirric saying. I never understood what was meant by taking comfort in the thunder of hooves, I thought loneliness could only be cured through company, but I think that when all that lays before you is a long ride, that sound can prove more stirring than conversation"

I mulled over this, marvelling at how closely the words of the saying fitted Boromir. What companionship did he have, setting out for Rivendell alone and yearning to remain with his people, feeling that he could serve them better by fighting on the home front? What dark nights did he spend underneath the clouded sky, with nothing but dreams and the will of our father to insist on his journey? Would I had gone with him, for to spend long days with him in solitude would have proved more favourable than the polite exile our father bestowed on me by making me Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Exile. Suddenly I realised how much more in common I had with my brother-in-law. I made a mental note to call on the King of Rohan after our return, if his new responsibilities were not taking up too much of his time.

Boromir always made valiant attempts every day to carry his responsibilities as a leader and as the firstborn, of whom much was expected, lightly, and for long years he succeeded. Yet towards the remainder of his time in Minas Tirith I could see this burden grow heavier on his broad shoulders, see his countenance become grimmer, less frequently relieved by a roguish smile, I saw him become more introverted, and I floundered, uncertain in the face of his discomfort.

"Faramir?" Eowyn laid a tender hand on my elbow, searching for me in the shadows of the past. I smiled, a little pained at the little memories I had thought were forgotten.

"You would think me foolish, lady, believing in such frail things as wishes, but even in the moments before Boromir's departure, I thought that those days would last forever, that tomorrow would always find us riding side by side, as if life itself was but a long race and I would forever look across my horse's neck to see Boromir do the same and laugh breathlessly over, over-"

"Over the sound of the hooves", Eowyn finished for me.

I touched her hand gratefully. I thought on the many uncomfortable meals we took in the hall with our father, of the stilted clatter of cutlery on plates, the half-hearted attempts to make conversation that would not provoke rebuke. My food lying untouched. Boromir's cup always empty. Our father's stolid chewing as he glowered over his meal, disapproving of our silences. My brother's eyes hooded under lowered lids as he selected a spot on the solid table to wear a hole through with his quiet fury, knife and fork clutched in fists so tight they may as well have been hewn out of rock. Several times I had thought that my brother, having sat through another in a endless stream of reproaches directed at me, was but seconds away from rising from the table and stabbing the implements into the wood. Or leaping across the table and pressing them to our father's throat. At times like that I loved him with a cold fear in my chest, sensing the tension build in his entire frame, tempted to reach across and touch his wrist to bring him back from losing control. My brother, who in battle, arrows having missed his face by less than an inch, would disregard such near misses and continue barking orders and encouraging the men through his example, came closest to losing himself in violent abandon whenever the three of us were in a room together in forced civility. His disbelief at our father's comments was plain for all to see. Father's praise for him, his disappointment, or on more fortunate days, his total disregard of my presence, as if he were dining alone with his beloved son. And I a tapestry hung on the wall; gaudy and tasteless in the tomb grey marble and white space around them. Death walking the mirrored floors. Our mother's ghost standing behind our father's form, steely-eyed and hunched over his plate, shrouded in cloaks.

I told Eowyn of the dread with which I faced such gatherings. Slow torture under the gaze of our father, the glint in his eye almost daring me to prove his low opinion of me right. She must have seen the exasperation forming on my brow as I recounted such experiences, for she smoothed it with a soft sleeve so that I could continue.

"Your reserve and strength was unflinching. I know that if I, " here she looked away momentarily, as if recounting some similar tableau in her past, "had been faced with such hostility from a parent I would have stormed out of the room, crying abuse and crying tears as I went. I would not know how to take such treatment from my parents"

"You barely knew them, did you?"

" My father was killed when I was a girl, and I lost my mother the moment the news of his death came to us. I did not have them for long"

Her lovely face froze; only her eyes seemed to shake with emotion.

"But this you already know", she shook her head, " and I have interrupted you, mid-flow. Please talk, Faramir"

She is strength and consideration. I continued, my voice less strange to my ears.

"In later days, when Boromir's absence meant that I saw less and less of our father, I found it easier to bear his grudge against me. I lost myself in strategies, battle plans, preserving the lives of the men I commanded, wondering at the loss of life all around me, whether the men I killed bore such sorrows as I did, wondered where they came from, whether they were fighting for something, someone as I was."

"Whatever you fought for, Faramir, I am sure you did so bravely. Do you remember what I told you I thought on looking upon you?"

"You said that I was a leader that men would follow-"

"And so they did, as the men of Rohan with my uncle; to whatever end. I hold to that belief"

Eowyn smiled warmly at me after this, and for a time we sat close in mutual quiet, as if we had arranged such a lull in our talk hours before. Presently she lifted her head from my shoulder.

"I think your father died when he lost your mother"

Such a simple sentence, weighted with pure and breathtaking comprehension. Unexpected. I looked at her, my breath caught in my lungs.

"I think you speak truly, lady. I thought he died again when the news of Boromir's-"

I cut the sentence off in mid-air. I had dreamt again that night, dreamt of a barge and a cargo more precious to me than any mere title or praise our father could award me. I finished what I began with a lump rising in my throat.

"When the news of Boromir's death reached him. He looked at me after the message had been delivered. We had not met for some time, and though the news must have been some days, if not weeks old among the soldiers, I think that he did not believe it until after he held my gaze. He called to me, my father, said my name as sternly and as demandingly as always. When I lifted my eyes to his he studied them, hunting for truth in the dreadful words. And I said nothing. Nothing, and he knew then that it was true"

Her hand sneaked into mine. I clutched at it like a drowning man. I saw the look on his face, how his iron gaze wavered, how the glint of tinder in them was replaced by a dull burning, and it was much for me to hold back tears before I walked out of the hall, not only for my brother, but for the reaction in his look once he realised that I was the only son he had left.

Now I am the sole remainder of an ill-fated family. Eowyn brushes a gentle hand across my heart, and I know that I am blessed to call her my wife.

"It pains me", I carry on, trembling a little with the force of my dark imagination, "that Boromir should have fallen so. Sam-", I look at the fire again, drowning in flames once more," Sam told me, as no one else could, that he had descended into madness. My brother", my voice shook, "so assured, so confident, stoic in the chaos of war, for him to lose himself pains me more than I have let anyone know"

The admission cascades, words tumbling between tear streaked lips now. There is no stopping this confession now.

"Eowyn, you are the first to know this, tell me I am not wrong to speak of it to you, but when I heard of the terrible power of the Ring over him, I felt like denying it, but would have fallen to the ground and wept into my hands if the time had allowed it. I pictured him in my mind, unable to stop the images, Boromir wandering alone and crazed in some dreadful wilderness, and I could not help him, help him who so often came to my aid, all my life. The deepest cut was that some small part of me knew that he concealed and fought any weakness, but not enough to prevent the Ring using it, and it was the realisation of this that wounded me. I could not help him, I could not save him, and I thought then that our father was after all, right in everything he said, right about my failures. I was not there with him._ I said many times to myself after that day; it should have been me, and I know that father wished it also. Boromir should live"_

Something within me implodes. Suddenly there is warm darkness around me, and I cling to a soft sleeve near me. My breathing shakes my whole body and tears dampened my face and the warm fabric I have pressed it to. I hear myself talking, angry, crushed sentences muffled by the darkness. Boromir should live. He should not be dead. The infuriated outrage of a child in my voice. Tell me I am not wrong to grieve him after so long, to grieve him so deeply still. For him to die and not see Gondor restored after fighting his whole life to look upon it in a time of peace. I am but half conscious of my plea.

I realise that this different, soothing darkness is Eowyn, her arms wrapped around me, mine circling her waist, my head in the space between shoulder and neck, the two of us moulded into a sculpture of grief and comfort. I have lost all control in what father would have seen as an unmanly fashion. He who never admitted the loss of our mother, though he slept every night in the same bed as her ghost and woke every morning to find her gone.

"There is nothing to reproach in grief, Faramir. There is no weakness in grief, or in tears. But From what-", here she pauses, as if combing her thoughts, "from what I have heard, from no less than the two Halflings that he saved, your brother fought most bravely and with honour, one man against many foes, and I know that he did not flinch from such odds, for if he did, where would our friends be? This you know, Faramir, for you have heard it from another who knew your brother also; he was a hero, and if we did not grieve such heroes, Men would be a sorry race indeed"

My tears are not mindful of my shame, and continue to seep out of my eyes. Yes, I have heard of my brother's death from another. The King, who seems to grieve Boromir nearly as often, if perhaps not as deeply as I do.

"Yes, your brother should live, but you should also. Where did you fail him? I know not. It is no sin to know that he was but a man, and had some small vulnerability like the greatest before him, among whom he is now justly named. Therefore do not judge yourself harshly"

His small vulnerability. Yes, in the minute waver in his eyes, his moments of stolid silence staring out across the city. The barely visible doubt gnawing at his great heart. What could he, of all men, be uncertain of in himself? I had thought seeing him thus.

"He did not give his life in vain, Faramir. There are many who I once thought did so, but I will not count your brother among them, and neither should you. Their lives are too great to forsake in favour of recalling their deaths"

I look up from her arms and see, with mingled surprise and gratitude, that her lovely eyes are filled with tears, small wells of liquid that hold more sadness and strength than I have ever seen. What strange tones her voice adopted then as she spoke those words, there is withheld sorrow she has admitted by her tears. I remember that I am not alone in mourning the dead. Oh father, would that you had seen that also, you who sat alone in the empty hall with nothing but the shades of those gone around you.

We sit, brow to brow. I can taste the salt of my tears and know that she can also, having kissed me again. I can hear the wind rustle the grass, feel the slight creaking of the log beneath us. Cool air fans my heated face, and there is something tiny, nearly imperceptible but remarkable spilling out from my chest.

I think it is peace.

"Tell me", my wife murmurs between sighs, "what remains that you cannot reveal to me now"


	10. Remembrance

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

I'll never stop saying this, but thanks to everyone who has reviewed this so far! –Morithil.

**X**

_ "...as if it were a scene made up by the mind,_

_ that is not mine, but is a made place,_

_ that is mine, it is so near to the heart,_

_ and eternal pasture folded in all thought_

_ so that there is a hall therein_

_ that is a made place, created by light_

_ wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall"_

_ Robert Duncan, Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow._

Sunlight streams in through an open door.

On the slowly warming stone floor, two children are playing with a large set of miniature horses, each one simply but beautifully carved out of wood. The younger of the two looks up in admiration, all sun-tinged hair and grey-blue eyes, and watches the elder arrange several of the tiny beasts into carefully thought out lines, a faint furrow of concentration as the small hands shift the figures into position. Two armies, equal in the number of riders.

The younger lies comfortably on his stomach, two remaining figures on horseback clutched in each hand. His elder smiles warmly from his crouched position, looking with a youthful but critical eye over the small troops they both dwarf.

Bare feet pad softly on the heated stones. Somewhere beyond the door, a horse's neigh is heard, brash and impassioned from the stables. The siblings' eyes meet over the imaginary battlefield laid between them. Both hold their breath in innocent anticipation, before two hands place the mounted figures in front of the neat rows of horses.

Outside there is the world, a far-ranging blue sky, and a fair wind. But these things have been forsaken in favour of a massive plain, a call to arms and a key decision. The power of imagination swells the room. The younger brother moves, his knees clutched in front of him in emulation of his brother, who kneels decidedly, one arm rested on a raised knee, a strategy forming in his mind.

"Well, are you ready?"

The boy clutching his knees nods, eyes gleaming.

"What is our plan, brother?"

The smaller of the two separates a smaller group from the riders, placing before it one of the mounted riders.

"I shall take these men round, behind the enemy's position, and attack from there"

"A dangerous plan, little brother; are you sure you do not want more men to accompany you on this mission?"

A wide smile, trust implicit in the expression on the boy's face.

"We shall make our move at night, and in the confusion, numbers will not matter so much when we are the ones who are prepared. Besides", his hand moves the remaining rider in front of the larger group, "if we cannot hold the advantage for as long as planned, you will have a much larger force ready to reinforce our position"

The older boy grinned in recognition.

"You have only to call for aid, and I shall bring my men to fight alongside yours. But Faramir", a closed hand brushes under the younger boy's chin affectionately, "perhaps, with surprise, the cover of darkness _and_ your skilful leadership, I shall not have to come to help you"

An endearing blush and a bashful grin from the other.

"But I shall come anyway, if only so that we can share the victory"

The pane of sunlight bathes the two in golden warmth, the image undimmed by the years.

This was the scene that Faramir showed me, the memory that pervaded his dream last night. In the golden interior of our tent, illuminated by the sunlight outside, it became vivid and real, as if I stood in the doorway watching two brothers playing at war. He did not wake troubled and shaking as before. Instead, a slight smile played across his face in the seconds before he sat up abruptly, the dream over, his beautiful eyes opening to find me, head rested in one hand, watching his awakening.

He lowered himself down beside me, pulling the blanket back over his waist. It was with some relief that I heard him speak.

"I dreamt of the past again"

"Of happy times?" I ventured, smiling hopefully. Faramir sighed, not a sound full of remorse and pain, but of gentle wistfulness, a long remembered sadness, his breath warm on my arm.

"Boromir and I were children, playing at commanding armies, fighting enemies, planning strategies for victory"

"Show me", I replied. And we spent the next hour in retrospect, Faramir looking fondly back on that day, one of many spent in similar occupation, while I drank in his words and the play of memory across his handsome face. He showed me the rooms that he and Boromir played in, the trips to the stables, running awed hands over the lowered necks of mighty steeds. He took me to the parapets, gazed over only by standing on tiptoes. He brought me Boromir's tunics, the velvet hastily torn to make bandages for scraped knees, cut elbows, grudgingly mended by mildly disapproving women. I laughed with him at their exploits, whispered in the secret hiding places, stories in the dark. I looked up in reverence at the branches of a white tree, milky against a blue sky, and rejoiced at this gift, Faramir sharing the past with more ease and, dare I hope, eagerness than before.

The rest of the morning we lazed away, loosely held in the other's arms, willing away the chores of dismantling the tent and packing up our things before riding off again. Faramir glanced quizzically at the slumped boots near the foot of our heap of blankets, before a quick smile spread and disappeared on his face. I laughed softly into his chest.

"I do not know why I find them amusing either, Faramir"

His sword-roughened hands caressed my head gently. I snatched one and ran a finger down the now healed gash, the skin new, if a little puckered where the wound had been. Around it the skin of his palm is tough, no doubt from many years gripping his bow before drawing the string taut, his arms stretched. I could almost feel the shape of the wood in his hand.

"Did Boromir - ?" I stroked his palm again to convey my meaning.

His eyes grew a little sad; I almost berated myself for asking. But after intaking a heavy breath, Faramir answered.

"No. He was not given to forms of combat that distanced himself from his foes. He sought the close air of battle, the shared arena of a few steps. His strengths lay in his swordsmanship, where he was unmatched by any in Gondor"

"As you were in archery", I smiled. He laughed under his breath, lowering his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, a mannerism from the childhood he has shown me, still present now. It only makes me love him more. I drew his face to mine and kissed him good morning, ignoring the telltale signs that it was close on midday.

When we finally admitted that it was time to be moving on, it was with an almost unanimous groan. Slowly, a little befuddled with sleep and the exhaustion reminding us of the night before, we set about saddling our horses and packing away our things. In the brightness of the day the locks of Faramir's hair gave off a luminescent glow, crowning him with a cap of dark gold. Verily he is the Prince of Ithilien, tall and noble under the high globe of the sun. I sat down in the grass; my sword laid over my knees, and began wiping its steely blade with the edge of my sleeve. I am not sure of how long I sat thus, absorbed in my task and the play of sun down the long shard of hammered metal, but it must have been some time, for when I looked up our tent had vanished and Faramir stood, leaning against the saddle of his horse, intently watching me.

I felt the flush spread up my neck, and looked away when I saw him chuckle at my discomfort, nodding at my weapon.

"Perhaps you are planning to use the flat side on your husband's head, Eowyn", he suggested, his eyes glinting with amusement.

I feined ignorance of his joke and rose to my feet, studying my handiwork as nonchalantly as possible. I scrutinised the horses' heads adorning the handle.

"Maybe I will use the hilt instead. It may prove more effective", I returned, swallowing a girlish giggle that threatened to bubble up from my stomach. I cannot keep up a teasing pretence for long, and Faramir know this.

He stalks towards me as I avoid his look, staring instead into the blade, watching my distorted image stretch in it. His voice drops, becomes more serious as he stands suggestively close.

"I only know this; that there is no-one else I would rather have knock some sense into me"

I look up to him, and his face is solemn, his mouth sincere. I sheath the sword quickly, not tearing my eyes from his as I return it to its scabbard.

"Can you forgive me, Eowyn?"

His hand lingers, a butterfly's touch on my shoulder.

"What is there to forgive?" I answer before burying my face into the side of his neck. His shoulders loosen in relief, a sigh leaving him as I throw my arms around him, clutching my sword in one hand, the other a spread palm across his back. The muscle underneath ripples slightly as his arm winds around my waist.

"Each day I convince myself that I cannot love you more, and every day you prove me wrong"

He knows I have not the words to respond to this, but I think he feels my response, if only in the tightening of my arms encircling him. Against the skin of his neck I think I feel him smile.

We rode on, making up for lost time and yet not intent on rushing the journey. By afternoon, we had stopped beside a slender brook to refill our flasks and let the horses drink. Hot and tired from the ride, I slipped off my boots and the thin socks from my feet and sunk them gratefully into the cold water, hitching my skirts up to my knees and leaning my head back, a movement that brought me into contact with Faramir's hip. I opened my eyes to find him standing behind me.

"I think I may join you", he said, looking interestedly at the running water. If only the people of Gondor could see their Steward, I thought, as he pulled off his boots with tired relish and plunged his feet ankle-deep into the brook. So calm, so composed, going about his work diligently. The contrast of the ceremonial image and my husband beside me, head bowed between his knees as he splashed water over his tumbling hair provoked a giggle. Faramir raised his head, rivulets running down the strands of his hair and down his brow, and stared, poker-faced. My breath stilled as I watched the water trickle provocatively over his mouth.

"What amuses you, my lady?"

"Nothing", I managed, "other than what the revelations of a mere stream would do to your formal image"

He turned away, and for a flickering second I feared I had offended him. When I touched his arm to rouse him, a spray of droplets showered me full in the face. On recovering from the sudden assault, I found Faramir poised and ready, his hand already half immersed again into the water. I wipe my face with equally wet fingers.

"I do not think my brother will take kindly to his sister being abused so, my lord" I splutter through my shocked laughter.

"I doubt that the King of Rohan would be persuaded to intrude upon his sister and her husband when they have taken such pains to be alone", he counters, removing his hand from the brook and shaking it dry.

"He would listen to his sister. Eomer is stubborn, my lord", I reminisced, staring across the landscape before us, "once his mind is set on something, it is not easily, if at all stirred from following that path. He is like our uncle in that"

I remember how frail he looked, how I suddenly realised that my uncle was an old man, as he lay broken beneath Snowmane. He seemed to age in a single breath, as if in all the years he had ruled Rohan, I had seen him as a man still full of his prime, forgotten the white hairs on his head, blind to the lines around his cheerful but commanding eyes. I stop when, as if in recollection, my arm grows heated. I retreat into childhood before the dark tower of dead flesh before me.

A spiked mace swings.

Only when a damp hand on my cheek draws me towards him do I realise that my eyes have been closed, and that Faramir appears worried by my silence.

"What troubles my brave warrior so?" he mutters gently.

I shake my head.

"That which commits me to remembrance in song"

Faramir dropped his hand to my knee, already understanding of what I speak.

"A dark day for the kingdom of Rohan", he murmurs.

"All the more because none could help him", I swallowed. I had stood, frozen to the earth, to watch in horror as horse and rider collided and tumbled, foul claws reaching towards them.

"There was one"

I look up to meet my husband's gaze. He strokes the side of my face with an index finger.

"A true shieldmaiden of Rohan. A warrior of courage and resolve even when all around her seemed lost"

I blink back tears, the cold, primal fear that swept through me that day, even in recollection, as potent as before. How would you prepare to fight, when you stand dwarfed by what appears to be a tower of what was once a man, a king, like he who lies broken by your feet? Is there any joy in battle when your foe stands dark and unfamiliar as a grave, void of expression and beyond comprehension in his evil?

There is a singular fear, one that harks back to your first experience of it, that can still reduce you to quivering and self-doubt. Such was the fear that gripped me then.

I tell Faramir this. He nods in agreement, his clear eyes misting over as he too, retreats again into the past.

"For so long I wished to fight, to defend Rohan, Edoras. The times I was stopped from setting foot in stirrup, from putting hand to a sword, from riding into glorious battle like the horselords of old. Yet then, I wished for it no more. I wished for the fields to vanish, for Pelennor to become a distant possibility, to reverse time. I did not want it any longer, I-"

I wanted my uncle back. I wanted the closest thing to a father back, wanted him to rise to his feet so that we could take on this foe together, uncle and niece, united in battle.

"If this was the price to pay for a one moment of battle, I would have bartered my sword away and stood watch on the threshold of Edoras, awaiting the riders' return or gathering the people to me to defend the homeland to the last. He was so calm, and I was in chaos"

I smiled bleakly at Faramir.

"For all my hours of practice, the sword cleaved to my hand and would not move. As is now known, my shield proved useless"

He kissed my brow, pressing his lips there, prolonging the touch. My eyelids fluttered.

"All I could think of was to call for help. Help, as if in the noise and carnage of Pelennor any cry would be heard"

"Your deeds rang louder than any cry for help", Faramir rejoined, a hand clasping the crook of my arm, "and yielded more justice than any aid would have brought. You fought with all the more courage because you did so despite your great fear, and because even that could not prevent you from striking hard and true"

I brush his errant locks, sleek and darker from the water, back from his forehead, where they have fallen. My arm cools, and I do not think that it is because of the water splashed on the sleeves of my gown.

"You said that your brother desired the closeness that battle brought", I remember, "I desired that too"

"If you will, I would ask you something, Eowyn"

I blink, curious. I search his face for more of a clue.

"Ask anything, Faramir. I will not refuse you an answer"

He smiles, looks out across the brook where I had gazed. Yellow flowers adorn the weeds in the grass. A bee droned across the view. I cannot remember such contentment before Faramir.

"Tell me of Edoras", he speaks to the lingering bee.

We draw our feet out of the water and plant wet toes onto the green grass. There is much to tell.


	11. Mirth

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

**XI**__

_ "They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other._

_ There is no loneliness like theirs._

_ At home once more,_

_ They begin munching the tufts of spring in the darkness."_

_ James Wright, A Blessing. _

Gold and white upon a green background.

Yes, these are the colours adorning the banners of Rohan, but they are also the shades that my eyes have dwelled on. The gold of my wife's hair, the white of her skin and the green of the grass that we have lain on. She lies slender and warm on her back, the sun catching the lively glints in her eyes, the shimmer of water on her hands, the flush of her lips, the result of my attentions. One arm stretches gracefully across the emerald ground and tapered fingers wind themselves gently around my hair. The other hand twirls a long blade of grass between two dextrous fingers. I watch, mesmerised by the movement of white fingers against the pale fabric of her slip. At last I move to gently kiss her swollen lips, and when I pull back, she smiles.

I wonder that she was not called the Fair Lady of Rohan, for so she is.

I have lost all sense of time from the moment she finished telling me of Edoras and I kissed her hand, and now, as we both lie sated beside the still-flowing brook. By the deepening hue of the sky, I can tell it must be early evening. Although the thought of seeing her thus by the light of a campfire is persuasive to say the least, I am still loathe to leave her side. Instead I go to Edoras, and look on from behind the corner of the stables, watching a brother and sister on the steps of the Golden Hall.

"You know better than to tend him by yourself. What made you do it?"

Small pale hands rub a bruised shoulder. Resentment in blue eyes forcing back hurt tears.__

A white horse dances in a young boy's eyes. On the windswept steps of Meduseld he stands, gazing up at the flag that billows unceasingly in the bracing winds. On the step below him a girl with long flaxen hair, rebellious in its makeshift ribbon, stares out over Edoras, her little face white as the rearing horse, her eyes stern in such a young face. Her hand rubs her shoulder consolingly.

"You feed him on your own. And brush him. Why shouldn't I?"

Eomer sighs like a despairing adult. Something in his protective stance and sense of authority reminds me of Boromir.

"Because Snowmane is not used to you, Eowyn. His mother needs to be familiar with you before she lets you start grooming him, otherwise she'll shake her head or rear up and knock you down. You were lucky today; you may not move so quickly away the next time"

"How can they get used to me if no-one lets me near them? It's not fair, everyone tells me not to tend them and now so are you, Eomer"

He sits down beside his sister, drapes a brotherly hand around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry. If you like, we'll go tomorrow and change the feed in their manger, and then we can both brush and groom him. You can even braid his mane, if you like"

Eowyn looks into her older brother's face, a kind look planted on it. He is awkward but sincere in his affection. She smiles ruefully, dropping the hand from her shoulder.

"His mane looks better loose, anyway"

"We'll go tomorrow, I promise"

I smile and walk away, down the hilly slope and past the smaller dwellings. A strong wind blows through the gaps between the houses, sent down from the mountains, the taste of snow in its breath.

She is nestled in my arms now, her face at my neck. The evening seems to have drawn its velvety cloak around us, and I admit that we should begin to set up our tent for the night. Drawing my arm from her waist, I slip it under her legs. Eowyn opened her eyes and looked up at me questioningly. I grinned, and in one movement swung her up and around, standing so that she was cradled, one of my arms under her back, the other hooked around her knees. Taken by surprise, she let out a most unwarrior-like squeal, throwing her arms around my neck. I laughed as I carried her away from the brook, kicking her discarded gown up from the grass with my toe and letting her catch it, swinging her arm from my neck and grasping the garment before it escaped her clasp. Laughing breathlessly, she protested at my carrying her.

"Faramir!"

I ignored her protest and continued towards where the horses were patiently grazing. She struggled, attempting to reach the ground, her foot straining to make contact with the grass.

"Faramir, put me down-"

The rest was incoherent in her laughter. Relenting, I lowered her slowly down, her feet no longer suspended in the air. I was rewarded with a light cuff on the shoulder. I staggered back, hand on my injured flesh, an almost comical expression of pain exaggerated on my face. Eowyn placed a hand at her silky throat, laughing at my antics. I regained my composure, attempting to look dignified despite my 'wound'. Her hand moved to her mouth, trying desperately to stem the flow of giggling escaping her.

"You wound me, lady"

"Forgive me", she gasps, "but I required some satisfaction for the drenching you gave me earlier"

I have no answer to that. I walk back towards the brook, retrieving my tunic and boots, carrying them back towards her. I sat upon a hewn tree stump and pulled the boots up over my breeches before donning my tunic again. I sighed dramatically, watching the beautiful creature who appeared to be glowing with an ethereal light before me.

"I think that some sort of meal is needed now, Eowyn"

"Yes, I cannot remember when we last ate today"

She steps quickly into the dress, inserting her arms through the sleeves, adjusting the bodice. Walking over to the horses, she opens one of the packs, and after rummaging through it, pulls out two packages wrapped in dark green leaves.

"We still have some of the-" she pauses, testing out the unfamiliar name on her tongue, "-lembas that we were given"

She holds out the packages to me, and I take one. Eowyn brought over a blanket from the horse pack, and spreading it on the grass, we sat down and opened the strangely fragrant cool leaves.

"Do you remember when we were given this for the first time?" she asks, breaking off a corner of the bread.

"Indeed", I smiled, fondly remembering, "Legolas the Elf held out a portion for you, still wrapped in the leaves, and you looked at him as if he'd given you a horseshoe"

Eowyn laughed at the memory.

"I did not know what it was! It was only when he explained that it was food that I took it; how could you remind me of that, Faramir, I was so embarrassed!"

"I do not think he minded, my love, after all you were gracious in your acceptance once you realised what he was offering. If he had offered some to me, my reaction would not have differed much from yours; I had heard of the Elvish way bread, but would not have been able to recognise it"

"They are so ageless, the Elves"

"Yes, so old and yet so young"

"Did you speak with Legolas for long?"

I shook my head.

"Not at great length, but he praised me for my bravery and what he had heard of my skill with a bow; high praise I thought from such an archer, the tales that were told of his deeds seemed nigh impossible. But no, we did not converse for long; I confess I was a little in awe of him who seemed younger than I but yet had lived for generations of men"

"I was a little in awe as well. But -", here she broke off into muffled laughing as she swallowed the mouthful of lembas she had taken, "-I was also in awe of our hobbits, and the food they managed to consume!"

I grinned. Since my introduction to Merry and Eowyn's to Pippin, the two respective soldiers of Rohan and Gondor had frequently become, in conversations between Eowyn and myself, "our hobbits". Such great friends I shall miss the company of dearly. I remembered the friendly competition with another member of the Fellowship of the Ring and voiced this to Eowyn.

"Did you see the King admit defeat to Merry at the last banquet?'

"Yes! He said it was best to give up right then rather than collapse under the table later"

I shook with mirth at the memory, the newly crowned King of Gondor tossing down his napkin and shaking his head, resigned as Merry polished off his sixth plate and reached for another. Acknowledging his defeat, the King proceeded to fill the tankard of the diminutive figure with more ale, grinning broadly and shaking with silent laughter as another sizeable hunk of bread disappeared into the seemingly bottomless pit of Merry's stomach. I recalled looking on in disbelief, Eowyn's laughter mingling with that of the Queen's as she consoled her husband, her hand at his cheek.

"Thus a hobbit's stomach is less easily filled than a hungry Ranger's, I think he said also"

"I hope that is the first and last defeat he suffers" Eowyn said. I nodded my agreement; may his reign be long, peaceful and prosperous. I sent my hope up to the stars, which were emerging in the evening sky.

"Do you remember how Pippin sang with the men afterwards?" Eowyn moved closer, her shoulder at my arm.

"I do - despite what the song said, I think there was more than one mug of beer inside that particular Took that evening"

We laughed together as the image of Pippin, resplendent in his garb as Guard of the Citadel and stamping wildly with Merry as he sang raucously, surrounded by knights of Gondor passed through both our minds. Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain, another line that stood out in that merry song. As if on cue, slight drops of water began to descend from the heavens, dotting our clothes. Eowyn and I looked at each other before springing to our feet and racing against the onset of rain, pulled the materials for our tent from the horses' packs and hastily began to assemble it.

Some time later we descended into the shelter of our tent, partly drenched and breathlessly happy.


	12. Siblings

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Glad you liked the previous chapter! Here's the update...

(I shall be on holiday in Canada for three weeks, so unfortunately future chapters will have to wait till I get back!)

Morithil.

**XII**

_"Though your body be confin'd,_

_And soft love a prisoner bound,_

_Yet the beauty of your mind,_

_Neither check nor chain hath found,_

_Look out nobly, then, and dare_

_Even the fetters that you wear"._

_ Fletcher, (source unknown)._

When we were children, as I have said; my brother was my protector. He was also my competitor, many sparring matches fought and drawn on the steps of Meduseld when frosty winds blew clean and purifying through Edoras, many summer mornings found our clothes dusty and our hands begrimed with earth. Soil under our fingernails, and gentle but firm scolding from our uncle, who would watch us go, little shoulders slightly sagging with shame. Bemusement in his kind eyes, always a fatherly word for both of us.

When came my wedding feast, my brother would not be tempted, it appeared, though oft I challenged him, laughingly and in a singing voice I scarcely knew to be my own, as if the sun had caught in my throat and left my mouth golden.

"Come, Eomer; you would begrudge your sister a friendly match?"

He had glowered half-heartedly over his goblet at me, not risking further dark in his expression when Faramir stood near, watching us with a knowing glint in his eye. My brother surprised me that day, clearing his throat in the fashion that made the company directly around us hush to listen to his speech.

"I value my life too much at this time to risk it in combat with the slayer of the Witch-King, who has well earned her place in the history of song"

I must have gaped at my brother. This was not Eomer that I knew, who would jokingly challenge me to move the sword in his hand with my own thin arm and then move it himself if only to make me feel better. I struggled to find the words that were escaping my grasp.

"And I would not fight a princess of Gondor on her wedding day"

I walked to him, smiling. My brother looked at me with his stern eyes over the rim of the goblet, and sipped.

"And what of a Lady of Rohan, for such I still am, and will not cease to be?"

Rippling murmurs in the crowd around us. Faramir smiled in the face of questioning looks sent his way, asking if he would tolerate such brazen loyalty to her homeland from his new wife. His face spoke reams, and I blushed to see pride and acceptance in it.

"Sister, as I said many times when we were children; perhaps another day"

Good-natured laughter in the hall. I grinned as Eomer bowed and swept past me to relieve himself of his empty goblet. In doing so he spoke in my ear.

"Perhaps before I return to Rohan, Eowyn"

I laughed merrily at this remark, which went unheard by others. However, a hand slipped round my waist and a low voice murmured against my cheek.

"If so, would my lady permit me to be mediator in this display of Rohirric swordsmanship?"

Does nothing escape Faramir's sharp hearing? I think not, and would not have it any other way. He met the celebrations with a gracious acceptance, smiled warmly at his people and more so at me. I had feared that the wild shieldmaiden from the North would not be greeted with such easy welcome into Gondor, strange as I am to their people and their ways. All proved otherwise, and I became almost shy in the friendly sentiments and amiable wishes that were given to me, unsure of how to answer such unlooked for acceptance and love.

"Of course, my lord", I teased, "Providing you do not allow your new status to affect your judgement on awarding points, of course"

"I could be persuaded" Faramir left me with a faint kiss on my cheek, walking forward as the King clasped his hand with all the camaraderie and warmth of a brother, which Faramir a little taken aback, accepted. They walked together to a less populated part of the hall where I now know sincere words and a friendly hand on my husband's arm were exchanged. I have married the Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, a valiant leader, and a man whose goodness I shall spend my days grateful for. That day seems bathed in a heady light, still fresh and clear in my mind as if we were married but yesterday.

"I can but echo the words of my friend, in wishing you and the Lord Faramir joy, Lady Eowyn"

Legolas Greenleaf, the Elven Prince lifted a toast to me, his fair head crowned with a circlet of precious silver. At his side, the much loved figure of Gimli the dwarf, whose strong hand gripped a large tankard.

"Hear, hear", Gimli agreed. The renown of the Nine Walkers grows, with the stouthearted dwarf surely a lord among his people. For now, he and the heir to the Woodland Realm are but two friends wishing joy to another, and I bowed to them, for much have they achieved, and courageous were their deeds as is their friendship.

"My lady!" the cry came from the small, child-like being in the garb of the Rohirrim.

"A song!" Merry proclaimed, "to the happy couple!"

At which he and his kinsman Pippin sprang onto a table and, on the latter producing a small wooden instrument with five strings, began a lilting and cheerful song that danced in its lively melody, to the applause of all present.

I clapped with the rest of the hall, having never laughed so freely, smiled so frequently and beamed so unwittingly as that day and all that followed it. The days of the King are, as Gandalf wished them; blessed.

I brushed back damp hair from my face and smoothed the blanket over my knees. The rain peppered down on the roof of our tent, and outside the horses stamped under their leafy shelter. Faramir brought me close to his chest and kissed me, much as he had one day upon the parapet for all to see.

"What were you remembering?"

"Our wedding day, and how I teased Eomer in front of the men"

"You were quite merciless, Eowyn. I almost pitied him"

I laughed, remembering the stern-eyed look my brother had given me; a warning, should I choose to continue in my hassling.

"Did you spar after all? I do not recall my presence being demanded to invigilate"

"Yes, and no. We talked more, of days gone by and those to come"

And so we had. Eomer brought wooden swords, as we had used in Rohan as children, and in an abandoned courtyard little disturbed by others, we shared brief clashes of dulled weapons. Mostly we talked, sitting side by side in the back of a stationary wagon, its horses in the stables. We sat, legs hanging over the side, the King of Rohan and the Princess of Ithilien, for all the world two siblings sitting in the hay strewn lap of a horse drawn cart being pulled up the hilly side of Edoras. We spoke of Rohan, and our uncle. Eomer recalled his admiration for him at Helms Deep, as fearless and deadly as any man not half his age, unafraid by the tremendous odds stacked against that brave defence. I remembered his face on awakening from his dark dreams, the recognition in his eyes, the protective slant in his smile on seeing me. Oft our conversation stilled into contemplative silence, a brother and sister watching the panes of sunlight travel slowly across the white walls.

On Eomer standing I rose as well.

"I will not say govern our people well, Eomer, for that I know you will do"

My brother is often uncomfortable with praise, and shifted his tall frame from one foot to the other.

"I would not say this, Eowyn, but for I must, as a brother should; be happy. May Faramir make you happy as you deserve to be, lest my wrath be borne by him"

I smiled, trying not to laugh at his serious face. My brother; my lifelong protector.

"Do you not trust my husband, Eomer?"

"I trust him as I trust all men; as far as the distance I can throw him"

My shocked laughter rang in the courtyard, and I looked about for any ears that may have overheard his bluntness.

"And what of the King, Eomer, to whom you would fain swear brotherhood and friendship? You would visit this trust upon him also?"

Eomer looked offended before grinning at the stone flagons.

"But for Aragorn not having proved himself King, and stronger than the Paths of the Dead, the same would apply to him also, brother though he is"

I tried to imagine Eomer bodily lifting the King of Gondor, and the notion was so outlandish that I had to hide a laugh in my sleeve.

"But do not take offence, Eowyn; as I have said, I trust Faramir as I do all men. He is a good man. Should you continue to be as happy as you are now, I shall hand over the title of protector of the White Lady to him with all my heart"

I was moved by his sincerity. I made to touch his arm, but as usual, my brother's infallible humour cut short any prolonged display of sibling affection.

"He is welcome to it; such an arduous duty I have borne through my youth"__

We laughed even as I thwacked the arm I had been about to take gently.

"Let another take it!" he called as I pursued him, avenging hand lifted to strike, both of us spluttering with laughter as we ran out of the courtyard. __


	13. Release

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Phew! Well, I'm back from Canada, and so here's the update! Many thanks for the reviews of the previous chapter-sorry I kept you waiting so long for this one! I'll finish the final chapter a.s.a.p…

Morithil.

**XIII**

_"You must habit yourself to the dazzle of light and of every moment of your life._

_Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,_

_Now I will you to be a bold swimmer"_

_Walt Whitman, Song of Myself._****

"Eomer was the same. He never questioned my stubbornness in wanting to captain my army, only saying that he felt sorry for my troops as they had such a hard taskmaster!"

I laughed as my wife recounted how she too had spent her childhood commanding wooden troops and miniature horses. It was evening now, and from the cool air that seeped into our tent from outside and the gradual fading of the light, I knew that it was time to put the horses to rest for the night. Granted, it was still early, but we had a long ride ahead of us in the morning, and I did not want to tire our steeds. The rain had ceased, and the pleasant smell of freshly watered grass could be detected, clean and fresh.

"Eomer was always first to take action in our games as well. Some things never change", Eowyn mused, smiling. I could well imagine the King of Rohan in childhood, eager to get to the battlefield, to do what had to be done.

"Yes, I can believe that. I think he was the first at our wedding to take me aside afterwards and inform me that if I ever made you unhappy I would have to answer to him"

Eowyn gasped, a hand over her mouth.

"He did not tell me he said that!" she blurted, shocked, "he only said that he gave you some helpful advice"

I grinned.

"Helpful advice indeed; I, Faramir of Gondor, must stay on the good side of Eomer of Rohan or face the consequences", I recited.

Eowyn stifled a giggle in her hand.

"How like my brother", she murmured.

"He has good cause to be protective", I replied, wrapping an arm round her shoulders, "and I have a strong desire to make you happy"

Eowyn placed a light kiss on my cheek.

"You already have", she answered, eyes shining.

"Then long may I continue to do so"

We ride for Minas Tirith tomorrow morning, back to the White City and its winding streets, its perilous heights, its breathtaking vantage points on Gondor. After notifying the King and Queen of our return we will return to Ithilien, our home. You could stand at its highest point and imagine that all of Middle Earth spread out before you, and that far-off places were but a few moments away as the swallow flies. How often were the times that I wandered out from the dark corners of the library and stood in awe, a book almost forgotten in one hand, completely absorbed by the scenery before me? Too many to count, I feel. There is a mixture of emotions swirling through me now, peace at having revealed what has long troubled me to Eowyn, who is an angel to me, my saviour, anticipation at returning home and beginning my new duties as Steward, and a warm glow of happiness at facing the rest of my life with the golden-haired woman who lies in the crook of my arm, her pale face against my tunic.

I stretched, still unwilling to leave her, but the horses needed tending to, and she looked so peaceful, floating in and out of sleep that I rose as gently and quietly as possible. As I ducked to leave the tent I heard her whisper my name in her sleep, and I took the chance to watch my wife as she began to fall completely into a blissful slumber. Unable to keep the smile from my face I ventured outside, breathed the fresh, cleansed air and closed my eyes against the cool temperature, a slight shock from the intimate warmth in our tent. Walking to the horses, I began with the undoing of the many buckles that strapped our saddles to their uncomplaining backs. I removed the saddles from Eowyn's horse first, and the admirable animal sniffed almost affectionately at my hand as I lifted the appendage from its body, as if in thanks. I brought the saddle into the protective shelter of the trees and covered it with a small tarpaulin to shield it against any further assault from the elements. I returned to my own horse and began to repeat the task I had just completed. Finally I loosened the buckles, taking slightly longer than I'd expected, as my fingers were slippery on the wet leather. I reached under the saddle with both arms to lift it free, and something made me stop, and look over the back of the steed who stood serenely, unaware of anything unusual.

"Preparing for an early start tomorrow, brother?"

I froze, my feet cleaving to the damp grass beneath them. The saddle hovered above the horse's back, my arms suspending it in mid-air. He leaned his weight on one leg, his hands steady, one at his sword hilt, the other hanging against the blood red tunic covering the chain mail underneath. It seemed that even the crickets stopped their singing, that time halted for a small eternity, the sky around us a dark lavender, a dreamscape.

It has finally happened, then. I have reached a point of sheer madness, and am forging my own illusions in reality. May the Valar help Eowyn, for her husband has taken leave of his senses.

He has not vanished. He looks so real. He looks so _alive_. I am dreaming, am I not? I pinched my wrist through the material of my tunic. Nothing.

"Boromir" I whispered, suddenly incapable of finding my speaking voice, his name the only word that made sense. His amused grin affirmed my recognition.

"Do not look at me so, brother, your face resembles your expression when I told you there were other things in life besides books"

I could not speak. Instead, I carefully lowered the saddle back down to rest on my horse's back, and patted its neck comfortingly as I walked around it. I stood in front of my brother, heard the slight clink of his sword against the long chain mail he wore, saw the light breeze stir his dark gold locks, felt the love in his eyes.

"Forgive me", I stumbled over the words, "you startled me"

"Forgiven", he waved off casually, a gloved hand in the dimming light. I could not help myself, and reached out to grasp his shoulder in my hand. The heavy softness of his travelling cloak gave way beneath my grip, and I felt the cold mail and the strength of the flesh concealed by it. Tears seeped to my eyes unbidden.

"Brother, I-" I felt weak, clinging to his shoulder with one hand as if my life depended on it.

I heard his soft, almost guttural laugh, and was willingly enveloped in his strong embrace. I sobbed into his shoulder, his gloved hands clapped around my back, my only anchor.

"You are happy now, aren't you, little brother?" his voice hummed in my ears, strong and river-deep.

"Yes", I murmured.

"You have a new life, you are married to a fine woman, and you are released from the past," he continued as I hugged him desperately.

"You are happy," he repeated, almost more of a question than a statement.

I looked up at him, my face warm with tears.

"Deliriously", I answered.

He laughed louder this time, the sound containing some of the booming quality I had remembered. Gripping me by the shoulders, he pushed me out from his arms and looked straight at me, holding me at a small distance.

"That is well"

"And you, brother?" I asked, wiping my face with my sleeve.

He grinned widely, as if to leave me in no doubt as to his welfare.

"Always the worrier, Faramir. Look to yourself more often"

His fisted hand nudged me playfully under my chin and I laughed.

It was when he turned and made towards the waiting horse some paces away that I stopped. He straightened the animal's reins, holding them in one hand, and the mirth died slightly in my throat.

"I won't see you again, will I?"

Boromir looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"You know the answer to that already, Faramir"

I nodded silently, watching as he swung himself up into the saddle with that casual grace that I had always admired. Even if this is but a dream, I found myself thinking, it has come from Boromir, and I shall treasure it always.

"Where are you going?" I asked, stepping forward as if to stop him. As if I could.

He looked over his shoulder at me, a roguish tint to his smile, his eyes bright in the last remnants of visibility. Through my smudged tears I felt myself smile at him, happy even as he made to leave me.

"Home", he said, straightening in the saddle, "as should you, little brother"

With that he turned his steed away, and I watched as he galloped away, across the darkening landscape, his cloak fluttering heavily in the night.

A flutter of canvas interrupted the otherwise silent evening. Eowyn emerged from the entrance of our tent, her golden hair tousled and lovely about her face.

"Faramir? Is everything alright?"

I turned to her, smiling. In the dim light she appeared not to see my tears.

"Yes. I will join you in a moment"

She smiled in reply, fragile and strong at the same time, and disappeared into our tent. I turned back to face the land before me.

I stood motionless for a while, no longer able to see or follow a diminishing figure on horseback riding across the grass. Then I turned back, lifted the saddle clear, and carried it to sit with the other underneath the trees. I refilled the horses' nosebags, and took one last look at where my brother had stood. I could still feel his powerful clasp round my shoulders, the worn leather where his gloved hand had touched my chin. I blinked the more stubborn tears out of my eyes, still smiling, and crept back into the tent where Eowyn lay sleeping, a white hand stretched out over the space next to her where I had lain. I watched her breath the slow breaths of slumber, her pale throat rising and falling with each. Suddenly the memory of Boromir's arms about me in a brotherly embrace came flooding back, and I knew that I was free, for the tears that threatened to flow from my eyes were tears of joy, not unquenchable sorrow. The past has lost its grip, and though there are some things I will never relinquish, I no longer look back on them in pain.

"I am home now, brother"

Tomorrow we would ride for Minas Tirith, and then to Ithilien. We would move on, out of the dark.


	14. Light

**DISCLAIMER**: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Well, I'm all apologies for the long delay in this - the last chapter - thanks to everyone who reviewed this story, it's much appreciated!

Morithil.

XIIII 

_ "But now the stark dignity of entrance-_

_ Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted, they _

_ grip down and begin to awaken"_

_ William Carlos Williams - Spring and All._

Can the days ahead be even more wonderful than this?

I had thought that with the end of the war, with the defeat of Sauron and of Saruman, that no bliss could be greater. I had found the war over, my dreams of glory in battle at once shattered and fulfilled, and a man by my side whose depth and kindness have brought light into places I had given up to shadow.

Yet there is even more joy to be found, it seems.

When we rose this morning, it was not with the harbingers of a silent ride ahead, there were no dreams to trouble us, and if there were dreams, they were of happy times. Faramir woke me gently, an insistent but gentle hand on my shoulder, a warm mouth on my lips, ghosting across them until I sat up, not to answer them, but berate him for teasing me so. Before I answered, that is. Long may the days be before I find myself able to resist returning one of my husband's kisses. And he is happy, so quietly happy that my heart may burst with relief and mutual elation.

I could not stop smiling all through breakfast, every mouthful of lembas and water was followed by a curving of my lips as I looked at Faramir sitting opposite me. Perhaps at another time I would have slapped a hand to my forehead to see myself thus, grinning like a fool over breakfast, but I am inexplicably filled with a need to express my content, horse lords forgive me, I could well be tempted to burst into song.

I think not. That, perhaps, is better left for another day.

Faramir's eyes glittered all morning, stealing quick glances at me that lingered for a second too long on purpose, so that I would catch him watching me and try to conjure something like disapproval at the scrutiny. Try I did, before failing and beaming fit to rival the warm sun that had risen far too quickly for my liking. I would have stayed there all day, basking in the sunlight and Faramir's love, feeling the warmth rise in my chest and colour flush to my throat and cheeks at his glances, those fleeting reminders of what we both feel for each other.

Yet back into the saddle we swing, ready to ride back, back across these plains, back to the realm of Gondor and the glittering turrets of Minas Tirith, and Ithilien fair, the place where we have spent many peaceful and happy days in each others company, and will do so in the future. It was not with too much regret that I swung into my seat. These past days have reinforced my love of riding, not dwindled it, and still my Rohirric soul strains for the wind in my hair, and the ripple of hooves on solid earth. I was content to return, and gazed out over the lit grass and rises of earth, hills and brook. I am glad we left.

Faramir's hand stayed for a long moment on my ankle, circling the limb through the leather of my boot. We stayed like that, both absorbed in the beauty of what surrounded us, memorising the landscape with our eyes. I could still feel the steady movement of his hand outlining the contours of my ankle some hours later, as we rode laughing to the river.

"Well, I think we should be proud of ourselves, Eowyn" he remarked, staring out across the expanse of moving water, much diminished as a result of the warm summer. I looked over at him, perplexed at to what he was referring to, the time in which we had reached the river, or how far we had come in these last days, the honesty and the admissions, the tears of sadness and relief.

"It took us longer to ride out from here than it has to return to this point, has it not?"

Ah, so he was indeed speaking of the literal journey. I smiled my agreement, the constant stream of sound from the running water soothing to my ears. I felt the glow from the ride radiate from my face. Now I can laugh to myself at the image; the shieldmaiden of Rohan, blushing like a new-

"-bride"

I shook myself free from my thoughts and turned to Faramir again.

"What?" the only reply I could muster. Perhaps my husband's gift with words will rub off at some point. Evidently the likelihood of this happening today is not great.

"My bride", he repeated, a warmth in his smile that competed with the sunlight and won.

Again, I blush. One day I will school myself in accepting compliments.

"Faramir", I reached over and touched his arm as it held the reins, "we have not been married long, but long enough for you to call me your wife"

He laughed softly, those clear blue-green eyes narrowing in mirth, reduced to slits of happy colour.

"Yes, I know, Eowyn, but still", he leant over in the saddle and touched a roving strand of my hair, "still I wake up and need to pinch myself to realise that this is real, that you chose to marry me. Thank you, lady"

I laughed this time, but nervously, uncertain. I should be thanking him, for seeing something in, what had I called myself then? A wild shieldmaiden of the North.

"I should thank you, Faramir, for showing me that the Shadow did not hold sway over my life as I thought"

"Ah", he responded, nodding, "then we are even"

We grinned at each other like children who have just gotten away with a prank, and then I set my heels to my steed's side and splashed across the shallowest part of the river, all excitement as Faramir did the same, trying to catch up with me in the pebble coated shallows.

"As I recall, lady", I heard him call not far behind me, "you gave yourself a rather unfair head start in our last race"

I halted in the last few feet of shallows, the water pooling round my horse's hooves. I looked over my shoulder and nodded my acquiescence, a mock attempt at seriousness on my face. I heard Faramir suppress a chuckle at my expression before riding up to me, our horses' heads facing the same way.

"Well then", he continued, "I shall ask them to lay a feast for you when you finally reach Minas Tirith. Of course I will have had my own some hours before"

I giggled at the utter absurdity of this. Minas Tirith lay before us, not half an hour's ride at a moderate pace, and here was my husband talking of hours and my own delayed arrival in the White City. Faramir beamed at my levity, running a careless hand through his windswept hair, dark gold locks pulled back through pale fingers.

"Of course that is ludicrous. But I will still reach the gates before you"

And with a cursory glance at my mildly shocked expression, grinning at my gape, Faramir dug in his heels and fled across the last part of river and onto dry grass, pounding the turf as he raced to the mountain of white towers and walls. I urged my steed into pursuit, caught up in the chase, Faramir racing ahead of me, bent over the neck of his horse in eagerness. Panels of sunlight passed over the grass and us in large scarves of gold. Faramir's voice was carried back by the wind.

"No more shadows, Eowyn!"

Aye, no more. For us, the dark days are long over.

In the distant air I heard the guards call for the gates to be opened, and we drew level with each other, thundering into Minas Tirith together to the call of silver trumpets.

**END.**


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